Belle and Adam
by lebardetriste
Summary: What if the enchantress never came to the castle? Would they have all lived happily ever after? Belle and Adam's relationship without the spell and the magic rose involved. AU.
1. Boredom

The sun sifted through the curtains and trickled over Adam as he lay in bed. It caught the copper in his hair like a child holding up a penny and cast his smooth skin, toned muscles, and angular contours into sharp relief. Had his companions been awake they would have found him very striking. As it was, they were tangled up in sheets, a shapely stocking clad leg visible here, the comely curve of a bosom exposed there, spent and fully embraced by sleep.

Adam sighed and opened his eyes slowly, squinting in the glare of the sun. His deep blue eyes shone like sapphires in the light before he grunted and turned his face away. He had a headache. He brought his hand to his temples and frowned. Why had they not yet invented a wine that could be ingested in large quantities without any unfortunate side effects the next day? What on Earth were all the vineyards and breweries up to? He thought briefly about who he could command to make such a thing when the Danish Duchess sharing his bed stretched and looked up at him.

"Good morning your highness," she murmured, shifting in bed to lay across his chest, running her fingers over his skin. Adam responded by bringing his hand down to her derriere and cupping it firmly.

"You've exhausted her," Duchess Alida said, looking down at her still slumbering lady-in-waiting with a smile, "She isn't used to a man with your virility."

"You should bring someone with far more stamina next time," Adam responded, a little shortly.

"Well," the duchess responded, frowning slightly, "I'm sure I made up for her shortcomings."

Adam sighed. The talking. He detested this aspect of amorous relations. All the talking. The flattery, the delicacies, the niceties. The talking it took to bed a woman, the talking during, the talking after they woke up. As soon as they opened their eyes in the morning they felt like they shared some kind of connection with him they wanted to explore. Why couldn't these women collect their stays and wigs after he was finished with them and see themselves out?

"You were fine Alexa," Adam answered. The duchess frowned further.

"Alida," she corrected.

"Fine," Adam said again, wondering how he could get this woman to attend to his morning needs before he dispensed with her and her full-chested lady in waiting. He brought his hand under her chin and turned her face upwards so that their eyes met.

"Don't pout," he said and she blinked slowly and dreamily as though his blue eyes cast some sort of spell over her. He tilted his head to the side like he was considering her, "Though it **_is_** an excellent way for you to show off those beautiful lips."

"Your highness is too kind," she mumbled, blushing. Adam moved so that his hardness was pressed against Alida's thigh.

"You are exceptionally skilled with those beautiful lips," he muttered, raising his eyebrows suggestively. The duchess smiled and began kissing his chest, his stomach, her lips moving steadily down his torso. Adam caught his breath and arched his head back as she took him in her mouth. The lady-in-waiting stirred and he reached over to take her bosom in his hand. She giggled and moved towards him, kissing him deeply while the duchess continued her work on his manhood. Adam pulled the lady-in-waiting away from his mouth by her hair and sat up slightly to take one of her pillowy breasts into his mouth, biting down hard. The lady-in-waiting gasped. She was beautiful, Adam thought dimly, wondering what her name was for a brief second before realizing he didn't care.

"I'm next," the lady-in-waiting whispered, glancing down at the movement under the sheets in the area of the prince's groin. Prince Adam smiled arrogantly. It was almost too easy.

* * *

Belle walked fluidly through the market square while reading her book. The townspeople admired her beauty and grace even as they scoffed at her eccentricity. She moved effortlessly through the town without so much as glancing up from her reading material, weaving through crowds and between various obstacles. The truth was it wasn't difficult. The town was small, predictable, imminently knowable. Every morning was the same since the morning that she'd come to this poor provincial town just after her mother died. Oh how she missed the hustle and bustle of Paris, the theatrics of a big city, the teaming humanity. As a girl she would walk out her front door and never know what was going to happen, but now the only place she found excitement was in her books.

She supposed, apathetically as she turned a page, that Gaston would turn up any moment. It was just about that time.

"Good morning Belle," a deep voice said, intruding upon her listless musings. Right on cue.

"Good morning Gaston," Belle responded, without looking up. Gaston snatched the book out of her hands and looked at it with disgust. Irritation swelled in her chest as Belle brought her hands to her hips. The truth was that physically she was attracted to Gaston just like any other girl in town. She despised this fact about herself but couldn't deny it. Belle found Gaston's broad shoulders, big muscles, and blue eyes appealing despite herself. What she did not find appealing, however, was Gaston's brutishness. Gaston turned her book sideways as though he were looking for crude drawings of nude women and Belle rolled her eyes.

"How can you read this?" he asked, "There are no pictures!"

"Well some people use their imagination," Belle responded, thinking that all of Gaston's muscles were in his biceps rather than his brain. Ever the gentleman, Gaston tossed her book into a mud puddle.

"Belle, it's time you got your head out of those books and paid attention to more important things, like me," Gaston told her. Belle frowned and retrieved her book from the mud, wiping it off on her apron and wondering how it was exactly Gaston had made it this far in life without being slapped.

"The whole town's talking about it," Gaston continued, "It's not right for a woman to read. Soon she starts getting ideas…thinking?"

A man of the enlightenment Gaston wasn't. Belle glanced at the trio of Bimbettes that Gaston had bedded on countless occasions and wondered why he didn't make better use of his time by wooing them with his thoughts on how women shouldn't think. Word had it that Gaston was pursuing her because of her beauty, but Belle wasn't buying it. Gaston was a man who had never been told "no" by anyone, and so, naturally, he wanted what he couldn't have. His attraction to her stemmed not from an appreciation of her beauty, and certainly not admiration for her intelligence or personality, but rather that she was tantalizingly out of his reach. She knew this, though she doubted he had enough insight to realize it.

"Gaston you are positively primeval," Belle told him flatly.

"Why thank you Belle," Gaston responded with pride. Belle blinked. Yes, Gaston definitely didn't have much insight.

"What do you say we head over to the tavern and take a look at my trophies?" Gaston said, putting his arm around her presumptuously. She wiggled free of him and stepped away.

"Maybe some other time," she said, "I have to get home to help my father. Goodbye."

"That crazy old loon," crowed Lefou, Gaston's lackey, "He needs all the help he can get!"

Anger flashed through Belle and for a moment her vivid imagination allowed her to fantasize about chucking her book square in Gaston's face. Her natural grace and loveliness often obscured the fact that she had a temper, a formidable one.

"Don't talk about my father that way!" she snapped, "He's not crazy! He's a genius!"

These words were no sooner out of her mouth than a loud explosion came from the vicinity of her cottage. She gasped and ran towards her home, hoping her father hadn't hurt himself of set the house on fire. He was a good man and she loved him. She would defend him against anyone, protect him from anything. But she knew, as she ran over the cobblestone street to her home, that he was much changed by her mother's death. Once a successful merchant in the city, the loss of his beloved wife drove him to both the outskirts of his sanity and civilization, landing them in this one-horse town in the middle of nowhere. Maurice became obsessed with his odd inventions, tinkering alone in the basement endlessly while Belle saw to all the housework and looked after the old man. As Belle approached the basement doors and saw smoke billowing out, she allowed herself to contemplate, just for a second, what it would be like to be free from Gaston, this town, this provincial life.


	2. Responsibility

Adam strode towards the dining room in a tailored burgundy suit, a swagger in his step as his boots echoed off the vaulted ceilings of his sprawling castle.

"Master," Lumiere said approaching with a bow, "Will our guests be joining us for breakfast? Shall I place some extra settings at the table?"

"No need." Adam stated abruptly, continuing to walk and not bothering to so much as glance at his servant. There was nothing that irritated him more than having breakfast with his latest conquests, feigning interest in their inane chatter and watching them glance at him coyly over teacups.

"Master?" Lumiere pressed, "The duchess is a visiting dignitary. It seems we should at least provide her with breakfast."

Adam rolled his eyes. Weren't servants supposed to serve rather than endlessly pester him? What good was a castle filled with people paid to do his bidding if they questioned every word out of his mouth?

"You can bring them breakfast in the West Wing," Adam responded, waving his arm disinterestedly towards that part of the castle, "Then escort them to a carriage that will take them back to Versailles."

"Do you not wish to show the duchess more of the province?" Lumiere asked.

"As you said, she is a visiting dignitary," the prince responded, wondering why he allowed Lumiere such free reign to question him, "As such it seems she should practice her … diplomacy in the capital. Bring her breakfast, prepare the carriages, and see her and her lady-in-waiting out. Go."

Lumiere bowed again to the prince and hurried away towards the kitchen. As the prince approached the dining hall, servants hurried up to bow and open the doors to the room. The prince passed through the doors with choruses of "your highness," echoing in his footsteps without slowing his pace. He did stop short, however, when he saw his father already seated at the breakfast table. The prince's father eyed him with an unamused expression.

"Father," the prince said, dipping his head slightly and trying to keep the disappointment from showing on his handsome face. His father had a habit of showing up unannounced at the castle and overstaying his welcome. Which, since the prince never welcomed a visit from his father, happened very quickly.

"My son," his father said, "His royal highness, grandson of the king, prince of France, God help us all."

"France and God has you and my brothers. And grandfather, of course, who still rules," Adam responded, seating himself at the table and unfolding his napkin over his lap, "I'm merely here to pose for portraits and extend the proud Bourbon line."

"And gamble, drink, and debauch away all of your considerable allowance it would seem," his father responded.

"So it would seem," Adam retorted, bringing his teacup to his lips with a smug smile, "How long are we to have the pleasure of your presence here at the castle?"

"Don't worry," his father replied, "I'm merely passing through the region on a hunting tour."

"Ah, pity," Adam said sarcastically, "You know how dearly I miss you when you are away."

"Why have you not made official visits to the neighboring towns as I've asked?" his father asked.

"I've been busy," Adam responded. Suddenly, he spat out his tea in disgust and turned towards the servants angrily, bellowing, "Cogsworth!"

"Yes master?" the portly servant demurred, running up to the prince's side.

"Take this away and bring me some wine," he snapped.

"But sire," Cogsworth protested, "It's not yet noon."

"How astute of you to keep me abreast of the time, Cogsworth," the prince snapped, "Now do as I say and bring me some wine. NOW."

"The tea will do just fine," the prince's father interrupted, "Will you excuse us?"

"Yes your highness," Cogsworth said, bowing, before glancing at the prince with a worried expression and leaving the room.

"Do you mean to undermine my authority in front of the servants?" the prince snapped, glowering at his father.

"I mean to catch you in a rare sober state so I can talk some sense into you," the prince's father responded. Adam shifted in his seat and leaned on his elbow, sighing and bracing himself for a long boring speech.

"You are not a child anymore, Adam," his father reproached him, "You are approaching your 21st birthday. You must think far more of your duties to your family and to France."

"I am not a dauphin," Adam said.

"That does not absolve you of responsibility," his father replied. Adam rolled his eyes but his father pressed, "The king cannot be in all places at once. As a member of the royal family you must occasionally attempt to forge alliances for the crown in some place other than your bed. The people grow restless. The whole country is buzzing over the ideas of Monsieurs Voltaire and Rousseau. A handsome young prince showing some noblesse oblige to local commoners could go a long way towards earning some goodwill from the people. And, I daresay, it would do you well to think of someone besides yourself for a moment. After all, you'll be a father soon after your wedding."

Adam sulked. He hardly enjoyed being reminded that on his 21st birthday he was to wed a Norwegian princess whom he'd never met. Yet another family obligation it was his duty to fulfill. They had sent a small painting of her to him in a locket. She was pretty in the painting, but then, artists always took the liberty of making reality far more attractive than it was. Still, she was fair, blonde, and in her letters she loved music and dancing, which would make her quite pleasing at court. He only hoped she didn't talk too much, or for that matter ask too many questions. He was a French prince, and as such had absolutely no intention on ceasing any of his current amusements for the sake of his new wife.

"Noblesse oblige?" the prince asked, laughing, "I have a noble obligation to…what? Toss some coins into the town square of some backwater village and watch the peasants scramble to collect them?"

"You have a noble obligation to show patronage and charity," his father told him, "Neither of which are among your strengths. You will take a tour of the town and figure out what their needs are. A new road, repairs for the town hall, renovations for the asylum…I don't care what it is. You'll go, you'll talk to them, and you'll fund whatever public project has popped into their peasant heads."

"How incredibly dull," Adam said, taking a bite of his croissant.

"And yet you will carry out my orders nonetheless," his father responded flippantly, taking a sip of tea.

"And if I refuse?" Adam asked sulkily. His father gave him a grim smile.

"Such a shame you didn't pay more attention to your tutors, Adam," his father said, pinning him with a look as steely as his grey eyes, "Had you been more mindful, you would understand that an order is something you have no right to refuse."

* * *

Belle helped her father pack for his trip to the fair. He'd done it, he'd really done it. He created an invention that actually worked! A modern miracle—a woodchopper that succeeded in neatly chopping wood without blowing up the house. It was a labor saving device that might have some practical use in people's lives, meaning that perhaps it could be sold. At any rate, if it won first prize at the fair at least the prize money would be enough to pay some of the back taxes they owed.

Her father rummaged around the house for inventions that he felt would help him on his journey. These items included elaborate compasses that always pointed South rather than North (except when they didn't work), strange maps with symbols only her father could divine, a canteen that doubled as a telescope among others.

Belle smiled to herself as her father blundered around the house, muttering about dog-ragged clenchers. Though his suitcase was always overflowing whenever he left for a trip, her papa had a habit of neglecting to pack the most crucial items for a long journey. It was like this even when times were easier and her mother was still alive. She remembered her mother quietly removing the more nonsensical items in her papa's luggage and replacing them with clean shirts, handkerchiefs, and a pocket watch as her father blustered about his next big adventure. Belle smoothed a strand a chestnut hair that had come loose from her ponytail and placed rolls, a jar of jam, and some hard boiled eggs lovingly into her father's satchel. She looked up and caught his gaze. There was a sadness in his kind eyes that made her think he was missing her mother.

She held his bag out to him and he took it, heaving it over his shoulder and looking at her proudly.

"Thank you, Belle," he said, "I think I have everything I need."

"Did you pack long underwear? The weather's changing, the nights have been getting cold," Belle told him.

"Yes," her father responded, laughing, "And if I did forget I'm sure you packed a pair for me."

Belle smiled. He held his hands out to her and she took them.

"I readied Philipe," she told him. He squeezed her hands and then reached for his hat.

"Then I supposed I'm off to the fair," Maurice said, "Take care while I'm gone."

"Goodbye papa," Belle replied, walking him out of the door. He climbed up onto Philipe and waved to her as the old mare trotted off into the distance.

Her father needed this success. He needed to be reconnected with the world, valued for something, respected again. This invention could be the start of a new life for them, in many ways. She knew he felt guilty for how their lives had gone since her mother died, for not being able to give her the life he felt she deserved. Truly it wasn't the money she missed. She didn't mind hard work, simple clothing, or making do with not that much. What she craved was freedom, excitement, a life that contained choices beyond what type of soup she'd make for supper. As she went back inside to prepare some dough for the day's bread, she smoothed her apron and sighed. She didn't mind her little cottage or even the provincial town so much as how small her life had become. It was that feeling she struggled against day after day, like a lightening bug beating its wings in vain against the confines of a jar.


	3. An Arrival

Belle made her way through the town as deftly as ever. She was reading her books even faster than usual now that her father was away and there was no one she could really talk to. While she did enjoy his necessitated a visit to town to get a new book. Though as she had readied herself this morning the thought of going into town caused her pause. After all, Gaston had been by only last night to offer her a ludicrous marriage proposal, which she promptly and perhaps not so discreetly refused. She snickered to herself at the thought of him fuming in that mud puddle. But honestly, 6 or 7 strapping boys? With Gaston? His little wife?! As if that kind of future would make all her dreams come true. Ah, if only it were so simple. In truth, Belle didn't know exactly what kind of life would make her happy but she knew, as she ducked into an alleyway to avoid being seen by Gaston who was stomping through the market square looking distinctly grumpy, it didn't include him.

She noticed that the marketplace seemed to be more hectic than usual. Indeed, as she looked around, it appeared everyone in town was out of their cottages and at the market today. Looking more closely, she also noticed that the townspeople were wearing their finest clothing, starched jackets and voluminous skirts typically reserved for dances or church on Sunday. Belle began to suspect there was something happening in town that day, and as usual she was out of the loop. She sighed and continued to try to make her way through the thick of townspeople. Whatever it was, she doubted that she would find it very interesting. The townspeople were always fainting over themselves at the slightest deviation from their routine. Though she did feel distinctly sloppy among the townspeople's hats and boquets of flowers, and began to wonder if she should at least remove her apron. She absentmindedly attempted to brush the flour from the morning's bread off the fabric of her blue dress.

Suddenly the autumn air filled with the sound of horns and Belle looked through the crowd to see men dressed in uniform marching down the main street before turning smartly on their heels and coming to an abrupt halt. An ornate carriage flanked by royal guards rolled between the lines of men and came to a stop. A breeze fluttered, shaking loose some leaves from the overhanging trees and toying with the sashes of the guards.

A portly man made his way to the front of the lines of men and looked over the waiting townspeople, who looked back at him expectantly. He cleared his throat and the crowd leaned in to hear him.

"Presenting his eminence, his grace, his royal highness Prince Adam Auguste de Bourbon," the man announced in French colored with hues of a British accent. Belle squinted toward the carriage. What on Earth was the son of the king doing in a tiny backwater like her town? She had to admit, as footmen hurried to open the carriage door, she was curious to see what a royal prince looked like. She leaned forward, attempting to find a window in the crowd through which she could see better.

At first only a boot of the finest leather was visible, then the prince exited the carriage and turned toward the townspeople. Belle blinked. He was handsome, almost breathtakingly so. He was quite tall and broad through the shoulders, muscular with a confident bearing. His nose was Roman, his lips full, his jawline chiseled, and his blonde hair caught the sun so that he seemed radiant even without all the pomp surrounding him. Already the Bimbettes had lost consciousness, entirely overcome by the presence of a handsome prince in their midst. Belle suppressed the urge to roll her eyes and wondered why these faint women had not taken to loosening the laces of their stays.

He surveyed the crowd with an arrogant expression that appeared supremely disinterested in the sea of people standing reverent before him. As his eyes lazily swept over the crowd they met Belle's and stopped, holding her gaze with an unreadable expression. Belle saw that his eyes were his most striking feature, brilliant blue and filled with an intensity that betrayed the conceited indifference in his countenance. Belle felt a flush rising to her cheeks that she wished bitterly she could suppress. She hardly wanted to swoon over this prince, who no doubt was well accustomed to women fainting in his wake.

"Kneel, girl!" one of the townspeople next to her hissed, and she looked around to see that the entire town was in a full genuflect except her. Gracefully she sank into a curtsy, lowering her face to look at the ground. She detested displays such as this, that millions should grovel at the feet of another, of one who was born into wealth and power but had done nothing to earn respect. In defiance she remained in her curtsy but looked up and to her surprise found the prince was still watching her. He raised an eyebrow at her and cocked his head slightly to the side.

She was beautiful, so beautiful in fact that he was taken aback by it. He was not expecting to find such beauty among the tattered peasantry of some one horse town his father had forced him to visit. Her skin was as fine as porcelain, her doe-shaped eyes were a striking hazel, and her lips were shapely and as pink as rose petals. Yet he could see in her expression a spiritedness that bordered on rebellion. He thought for a moment that he should pull her from the crowd and make an example of her, at least threaten her with a flogging. After all, first she had failed to kneel and now she was looking at him so brazenly. But something unnamable stopped him, and instead he looked away from her and paced in front of the crowd, his arms tucked behind his back.

"Greetings," the prince said, "I am pleased to visit your … lovely town."

The townspeople remained kneeling, faces turned piously towards the ground. The portly man who had introduced the prince cleared his throat again and glanced meaningfully toward the crowd.

"Oh," the prince said nonchalantly, "You may rise."

Wordlessly the crowd straightened, but their eyes remained reverently pointed towards the ground. Belle, however, continued to watch the prince.

"The king has sent me as an envoy to survey your town," the prince continued in an emotionless voice that made Belle suspect that his speech was well-rehearsed, "Once I have a better understanding of your needs, the crown would like to fund an improvement project. Let this stand as proof that the House of Bourbon holds the welfare of its subjects in the highest regard."

The crowd murmured its surprise and gratitude. The prince continued pacing in front of his subjects, and as he approached them, the people in the crowd sank into the deepest bow or curtsy, muttering "your highness," and "your majesty," as he passed.

"If I may," a deep voice spoke from the crowd, "Volunteer to give you a tour of our fine town. You see, no one knows this town as I do."

"Step forward," the prince commanded. Gaston strode out of the crowd and stood in front of the prince. The men were roughly the same height and build, and walked with the same swagger in their step. The prince sized Gaston up with a calculating expression.

"I did not ask for a volunteer," the prince informed him curtly.

"Your majesty," Gaston demurred, "You will not find a more capable guide to this town. If you are to gain an understanding of this town, do you not want your information to come from the highest authority?"

"And you are the highest authority?" the prince asked, with a sneer, "Sir, the highest authority is God, followed by the King, my brothers and myself. You do not rank even close to the highest authority, or as any authority for that matter."

Gaston continued to stand in front of the prince, looking uncertain as to how to save face in front of the prince or the crowd. The prince waved a hand at him disinterestedly and continued to pace in front of the crowd but Gaston remained grounded to the spot where he stood as though his feet had sprouted roots.

"You have been dismissed, sir," the portly servant informed him. Gaston glared at him and stomped back into the crowd, glowering at the ground.

The prince continued to inspect the citizens of the town. Good heavens, couldn't they be bothered to fix themselves up when they knew a prince was coming to town? Dreary dresses, fuzzy looking wigs, jackets that had to be patched, the entire seen was exhausting him. And the town…hideous. A muddy boring pit. How was he supposed to fund a public works project for the improvement of this town when the country would be much improved if this entire country would be much improved if this entire sinkhole was razed to the ground? Of course his father would send him on this fool's errand knowing the entire situation was hopeless. The prince cursed him inwardly as the townspeople continued to watch him expectantly.

Now that he thought of it, he supposed that having a guide to the town may be helpful. After all, he knew nothing of these people, their lives, or their needs and lacked the compassion or creativity to even imagine what could be done to help them. Nor was he particularly interested in helping them. But he had his orders from his father. The prince considered the matter. No way would he follow in the clomping footsteps of that presumptuous dolt who had offered to be his guide. His eyes settled on the woman in the blue dress in the crowd. Well, if he was to be trapped in this pathetic excuse for a town surrounded by poverty and filth, he might as well have something pleasant to look at.

"You," the prince said to the girl, "Step forward."

Belle glanced around herself, wondering who the prince was addressing. The townspeople on either side of her nudged her and looked at her like she was crazy.

"Yes, you," the prince reiterated with irritation, "Step forward."

Belle made her way through the crowd as gracefully as she typically moved past any obstacle in her path and stood before the prince. She curtsied but did not hold it, rising to meet the prince's gaze. She was even more beautiful close up, the prince realized. The prince, not at all accustomed to being surprised at someone's beauty, needed to quickly compose his expression into one of disinterest as she looked up at him with her lovely eyes.

"You will be my guide to this town," the prince declared, "You will tell me everything I need to know."

"Your majesty," Belle protested, "I feel certain that there are many others who would serve as far more knowledgeable guides than I, might you—"

"I have made my decision," the prince interrupted, "And I have bestowed upon you a great honor. You would do well to display more gratitude."

"Very well," Belle responded, with the slightest hint of irritation in the undertones of her melodic voice, "Thank you, your grace. I will do my very best to be a worthy guide for our fair town."

"Very well," the prince said, gesturing an arm outward toward the town, "The tour begins now. Show me everything."

Belle nodded and began leading the prince and his retinue down the main street, toward the stands of the marketplace. The townspeople looked at each other in disbelief but dared not to voice their disapproval with the prince still in such close proximity. But honestly, of all the people to act as an ambassador from their town to a royal prince! The strangest girl in town who lived with her lunatic father on the outskirts of the village and had just rejected a marriage proposal from the only man who could make a proper woman of her? This was who would communicate their history, culture, and needs to the crown? It was almost too much, and the townspeople feared what crackpot project Belle would recommend for the town.

At the edge of the crowd, arms folded, biceps bulging, Gaston watched Belle lead the prince through the stands of the marketplace. He was not a man used to rejection, and here he had been soundly humiliated in front of the whole town not once but twice! First by Belle who had rebuffed his proposal and now by a royal prince who had refused his help! He glared after them. He decided then and there that he would have his revenge sooner or later, make no mistake about that.


	4. A Tour

Belle reluctantly led the prince through the town, giving what details she could about the largely unremarkable village. The prince followed her, asking very few questions, his footsteps heavy on the dirt roads with disgust. He wondered how often he would have to visit this mud pit to appease his father.

"And over there is the tannery," Belle said, gesturing to a large building to the left. The prince gave the building a passing glance and continued walking.

"And here we have the smithy," Belle continued, "Our smith is quite good, would you like to go inside to see some of his work?"

"Maybe some other time," the prince muttered disinterestedly, adjusting the cuffs on his jacket.

"Perhaps this tour would be improved if you were more specific on what is you're looking for?" Belle said, surprised at her own irritation with the prince's obvious abhorrence with the town. It wasn't some sense of misplaced small town pride, she was well aware that the village was hardly a thrilling destination. In fact, she was a few unwanted advances from overbearing townsmen away from being downright cynical about the place. Still and all, the prince could at least be polite and feign a little interest.

"When I discover it you shall be the first to know," the prince responded, looking around himself with an expression of hopelessness. Belle couldn't help but wonder what his life was like, what places he had seen, what experiences he had enjoyed. Surely a life such as his was filled with adventure.

"I'm certain you have been to far more exciting destinations than our small town," Belle said.

"Yes," the prince responded brusquely.

"Then it must please you to see how much good your charity will do here," Belle replied. The prince paused to look at her and found her expression both sweet and a little defiant. He didn't quite know what to make of it, or of her for that matter. He raised his eyebrows and grunted in response. They continued to walk in silence, seemingly unaware that the entire town was following and watching from several yards behind them.

"Why don't you just tell me what you think the town needs so I can send some money and people to see it through and be done." the prince said suddenly.

"Well, I don't know," Belle said, smoothing back a stray hair from her brow, "I wouldn't presume to speak for the entire town."

The prince turned on his heel and pinned her with his blue eyes. They were so brilliant and intense that Belle felt the need to look away, as though she had been looking at the sun. He considered this girl standing before him. She couldn't be more than 18, and yet there was something about her, the way she spoke, the way she carried herself, that made her seem wise beyond her years. If she had any awareness of her beauty she didn't show it, and walked through the town as if she truly was more interested in talking about the history of the mill than in the appreciative looks she garnered from all the men around her. He really couldn't care less what the peasants in this town wanted, as though there were anything he could do to make their lives less dull and meager. He was, despite himself, mildly interested in what this beautiful young woman wanted.

"My father, your Dauphin, is insisting upon my generosity," the prince told her, "So consider this your lucky day. Name something you want, anything, and I'll make your dream come true."

"I doubt my dreams are something which can be realized through a public works project. But I'm sure the town will appreciate your generosity." Belle asked, feeling fatigued at the preponderance of arrogant men who felt they could waltz into her life and fulfill all her wishes as though her one burning desire was to fall into the arms of a man and live a life of subservient gratitude.

The prince blinked, caught off guard by her response. It was difficult to determine by her tone and demeanor, her choice of words, if she was defying him or not. He was baffled at her lack of gratitude. If he had told a princess that he was prepared to make her dream come true, she would have been needed a fainting couch for the swooning! And here, this peasant, felt it was her right to rebuff him? Let her rot here in the pig manure of this God forsaken town then, what was it to him? He hesitated, unsure of how to respond and increasingly irritated that he did not know how to respond.

"Do you know who I am?" the prince finally asked impetuously, his go to response for when he was unsure of how to handle a situation.

"Prince Adam Auguste de Bourbon," Belle answered evenly.

"That's correct, a man, a prince, a fils de France, the son of a dauphin and your superior in every possible way," the prince retorted. He considered this girl, this peasant, and decided she was far too proud for her own good, too clever, too impudent. He waited for a response, but she merely looked up at him, her pretty face impassive.

"Kneel," the prince commanded suddenly, pointing to the ground just in front of him. Belle held his gaze for a few seconds shy of impertinence, then gracefully sank to the ground, tilting her head downward reverently, allowing the prince to fully appreciate the arch of her graceful neck. The prince glared down at her, but was taken aback by how dignified she looked even as she knelt in the dirt before him. Seeing her this way did not vindicate his authority in the way he hoped, much to his annoyance.

"Rise," he snapped, and just as gracefully Belle pulled herself up to her full height, but her eyes remained downward. He found that he wanted her to look at him, that he found her hazel eyes captivating despite himself. This irritated him all the more. He had seen so many beautiful women, what made her so different?

"Why do you not simply tell me what you want?" the prince demanded, "Why must you be so difficult?"

"There are many works that would benefit this town, your highness," Belle told him, her gaze still settled on the ground, "Better roads, more medicines, repairs to the school. I would be happy to discuss them with you, but you need not trouble yourself with my personal needs."

"I could have you whipped until you become more cooperative," the prince growled through clenched teeth.

"You are a prince, a fils de France. You will do as you must." Belle replied, something slight in her tone suggesting that such an act would be beneath him.

The prince continued to look her over as a breeze toyed with wisps of her chestnut hair, but Belle did not meet his gaze. Like a small child trying to get her attention, the prince reached over and pulled out the book that had been peaking over the top of Belle's apron pocket. As the prince turned it over with mild disgust in his hands, Belle wondered why men felt entitled to grab her and her personal property on a whim.

"Man is born free, but he is everywhere in chains," Prince Adam read from the first page. His cerulean eyes lifted from the page and he looked momentarily thoughtful. The words echoed within him, the meaning reverberating in chambers of his mind where he kept his most personal feelings of pain, frustration, longing, a place within him he rarely visited and never explored.

Belle looked down, twisting her hands nervously. Leave it to her to have a distinctly anti-authoritarian book in her apron pocket the day she gives a prince the tour of her town. He could have her imprisoned, or worse yet, her father imprisoned. At the very least he could fine her father, something they could ill-afford. Belle resolved inwardly to beg the prince to punish only her and leave her father out of it. She prayed he would be merciful enough to at least grant that much.

"Monsieur Rousseau," Prince Adam commented, closing the book and examining the cover. He had not read any of his works, but had heard his father grumble enough times about him to know that the author harbored some incendiary ideas about the nobility and the crown.

"Yes, your highness," Belle responded. Adam looked at her and found that the imperturbable calm of her beautiful expression was for the moment disturbed. He then looked back at the book, still thinking. He had a temper, and he felt as though he should be angry to find anti-royal vitriol in the pocket of a peasant, a female peasant no less. And yet, to his surprise, he found himself more amused than anything. Indeed the absurdity of the situation was getting the better of him, and he was finding it difficult not to laugh. Of, course he remained composed.

"Are you in the habit of reading treasonous material Mademoiselle?" the prince asked, sharpening his tone into an accusation.

"I am in the habit of reading everything I can get my hands on," Belle responded, still looking down.

"You are, are you?" the prince responded, "Might your time be better spent reading something that does not advocate for dismantling the bedrock of civilization? Fairy tales perhaps?"

"One might argue that The Social Contract by Rousseau is a kind of fairy tale," Belle responded. Adam raised his thick eyebrows, surprised. She was smart, very smart even.

"Look at me," he demanded, and with reluctance Belle raised her eyes to meet his. He searched her face, the air as tense as violin strings around them. He found he was far more satisfied by her looking in his eyes than he was by her kneeling at his feet. This confused him, and annoyed him as much as it pleased him. He took a deep breath, tired, disoriented, ready to leave this place.

"I will return in a few days' time to continue to discuss a project for this town," the prince told her, "I trust you will be available?"

"I live here, your highness," Belle responded.

"I am confiscating this," Adam said, holding up her book, "Certainly you can find more suitable books to read."

Adam motioned for his men to bring his horse, and Belle waited for the rest of her punishment. It was only when he mounted his horse, bid the town a terse 'good day' and rode off that she allowed herself to hope that none would be forthcoming. As she walked back to her cottage, disoriented by the unexpected turn of the day, she wondered if her papa had made his trip safely. She jiggled the latch on her door and stopped in the doorway, seized by an unpleasant thought. What if she were on a kind of trial, and the prince meant to watch her during his time in the town? What if he meant to arrest her and her father when she least expected it? She shook her head as though to rid herself of such paranoid thoughts. Would that her life were free of domineering men, she wished as she grabbed a pail with which to feed the livestock. Would that she had not only been borne free, as Rousseau asserted, but was allowed to stay that way.


	5. Letters, Books, and Conversations

Adam sat at the window seat in his study, reclining against the wall, a tumbler full of whiskey resting easy in one hand, a letter in his other. He had changed since his visit to town earlier that day and was wearing a simple linen shirt with black pants and hunting boots. He detested the pageantry of the French nobility, piled on so thickly that recognizing an acquaintance at a party first required several minutes of mental excavation beneath the layers of clothing, wigs, makeup and perfume. No, he preferred a more natural look whenever possible and, though his father disapproved, most noble women did not seem to mind.

He sighed and took a deep draught from his tumbler, looking absentmindedly out of the window. Colors rippled through the sky as the sun slowly sank like a stone beneath the horizon. He had received a letter from his intended, Lumiere had ensured that it was waiting for Adam on the desk in his study. He turned his attention back to his fiance's fine artistic script while the faint scent of perfume wafted up from the pages. This distant princess assured Adam that she would bear him sons, but he found himself too preoccupied to process any of her words. Man was born free…

The words echoed through his thoughts, irritating him like a tune he could not stop replaying in his mind. Freedom was for the philosphers. As for himself, he had his father and hundreds of years of courtly traditions and expectations breathing down his neck.

Adam drained his glass and then stood suddenly, nearly hurling himself off the window seat and at his desk. He opened the top drawer and retrieved the book he had confiscated from the beautiful young mademoiselle. He flipped open to a random page where his eyes fell upon the passage,

"In truth, laws are always useful to those with possessions and harmful to those who have nothing; from which it follows that the social state is advantageous to men only when all possess something and none has too much."

Adam blinked and nearly dropped the book in surprise. He was no stranger to provocative material, but he had never read something so shocking. Adam dropped the incendiary book onto his desk as though it had burned his fingers. He eyed the text in disbelief, then threw it back into the drawer and slammed it closed. He leaned against his desk, glowering, considering. He was not a man who took kindly to having his privileges (which he viewed as rights) challenged. In fact, he was not accustomed to being challenged in anyway whatsoever. He was angry, but underneath the anger was something else…

A knock on the door announced Lumiere's presence.

"What?" the prince snarled.

"His majesty has requested your presence for dinner master," Lumiere told him.

"You mean he demanded it," Adam countered.

"Are you too tired from today's journey to join him?" Lumiere asked. Adam scoffed and poured himself another drink.

"As though I have a choice," Adam grumbled into his glass, "Inform him I'll be down imminently."

"As you wish master," Lumiere responded, bowing and leaving, his footsteps echoing off the polished floors of the west wing. As Adam took another drink, he eyed the drawer of his desk suspiciously, wondering what else Monsieur Rousseau had to say.

"Ah, the prodigal son returns," his father said from his vantage point at the head of the table as Adam strode into the dining room. Adam had to suppress the urge to roll his eyes as a servant pulled out his chair for him and he seated himself.

"You've set me on an impossible mission," Adam told his father as he tucked his napkin into his collar, "But then I'm sure you get a perverse pleasure out of setting me up for failure."

"You know nothing of failure. There is no one who has ever been set up for more success than you, Adam," his father responded, taking a bite off of his long handed fork, "Besides, I'm told you've found yourself a pretty young thing to take your mind off of the ugliness of the task I've given you."

Adam grunted in response. He eyed his father who looked back at him impassively. He wondered if his father had also been informed that this young woman was in possession of the much loathed Roussseau, but if he had been his expression did not show it. It was unlike his father to miss an opportunity to give him a lecture, so he assumed that he didn't know. For a moment he considered telling him, but then he was certain his father would not approve of how he had handled the situation and he would be treated to another speech of how little he knew of being a proper prince.

"Do you think much about freedom father?" Adam asked after they had eaten in silence for a few moments. A look of surprise crossed his father's face and he nearly choked on his dinner bread. Composing himself, he dabbed his face with his napkin and cleared his throat.

"Is this about your betrothal?" his father asked.

"What?" Adam responded, "No, I'm merely curious- "

"Because we need this alliance," his father told him, "And at your age you should be far more concerned about your duties than freedom. It's time for you to settle down, you'll be a father soon."

Adam glared down at his plate as his father continued eating, the table to silent that he could hear the tinkle of the silver against the china. Of course. He should have known better than to try to open a conversation with his father. For all the people that surrounded him and doted on him, he so often found there was no one he could really talk to.


	6. Great Wide Somewhere

Belle rose early, as always. She tied her thick chestnut hair back into a simple ponytail, dressed in a mint green frock, and wrapped her apron around her thin waist to start the day of chores. As she bustled around the house, cleaning, collecting clothes for the laundry, preparing dough for the daily bread, she wondered about her father. She hoped the old man had found his way safely to the fair, after all, his mind often wandered and he was apt to get lost. She should have reminded him that Phillipe was an old horse, and needed rested often. Come to think of it, her father needed rest often too. Hopefully her father wasn't pushing himself too hard in his zeal to get to the fair.

Belle began dusting the paintings that hung on the wall, relics of better times when they could occasionally afford such expensive luxuries. She paused at the painting of her with her mother. Her mother's blue eyes stared back at her from the painting, her full lips arrange into a gentle smile. She had been a beauty and Belle possessed many of her charms, though Belle inherited traits far more valuable than beauty from the kind woman. No, Belle had learned everything of importance, how to read, how to work hard, how to be kind and accepting, from her mother. Belle continued to study her mother's face and recognized a spiritedness in her countenance. Belle smiled to herself and admitted that perhaps she had inherited some of the woman's stubbornness as well.

As Belle went about her chores another person crept into her thoughts. The prince. She tied a kerchief around her hair and went outside to tend to the livestock. He had said he would return, but he had not been clear about when exactly he would do so. She supposed that it would not be appropriate to greet his highness in an apron and kerchief covered in various debris from housecleaning, cooking, and tending to livestock. However, she could hardly be expected to sit for days on end in her finest clothing like a porcelain doll with no purpose but to wait for his royal presence. After all she had a household to run and there was no one but herself to do the dirty work.

It was a fine day, sunny, with a slight breeze. She swung the gate open to the animals' enclosure and quickly discovered that one of the goats had again escaped from its pen. Belle rolled her eyes and groaned. The stubborn little beast could not be contained, no matter what contraption her father invented to try to prevent its escape. She supposed she would find it where it normally fled, over the hills at the river. Belle sighed and let herself out of the animal's enclosure, walking toward the river, smoothing rebellious strands of hair away from her brow as she went.

As she crested the hill and the land splayed out before her, the breeze lapping at her dress, she was momentarily overcome with wistfulness. There was such a world around her, sprawling and lovely and exciting, and she had seen so little of it. Oh to be free, for a moment, to explore it. She felt guilty for wanting her freedom so sorely, knowing she owed much to her kind father, who after all offered more freedoms then most men to their daughters. He allowed her to read and speak her mind, did not pressure her to marry, and was appreciative of all she did around the house.

As she searched the lands for signs of her little goat, she admitted another feeling to herself. Loneliness. How grand it would be if she had someone to talk to who actually understood her, or at least wanted to. She was not one to idealize marriage, quite the opposite really. It wasn't domesticity she wanted but something wilder and much harder to attain. She dared not think the word without feeling cynical about childish romantic notions, but neither could she deny her longing.

Suddenly she spotted the goat helping itself to a long drink from the river. She ran down the hill to collect her and bring her back to the cottage. As Belle approached, the goat startled and backed away.

"Come Nettie," Belle said to the animal gently, "You've had your fun."

The animal responded by staring stubbornly at Belle, and did not approach her. Belle considered the goat, then bent down to uproot some grass and held it out to Nettie as an offering. Nettie continued to stare at Belle, eyeing her with suspicion, but obliging edged a few steps forward as she sniffed the air.

"Thatta girl," Belle cooed, "Come here."

The goat slowly approached, and eventually came close enough for Belle to quickly grasp the loose end of the rope that was tied around its neck. The goat immediately began to pull against its constraint, bleeting angrily at Belle.

"I know, Nettie girl," Belle told it gently, "I'm sorry."

Belle tugged at the rope, the goat fighting her with all its little strength. She did feel bad that she needed to confine the animal who so loved its freedom, but she and her father could ill afford the loss of livestock. As she struggled with Nettie, the breeze brought the sound of voices. Belle paused to listen, and if she was not mistaken these voices were calling for her. She strained to hear them properly and as she did so the goat head-butted her hard in the side, knocking her off balance. As Belle struggled to regain her center of gravity, her foot slipped on the slick mud lining the banks of the river and she fell, with no amount of grace, into the water. She was still clutching Nettie's rope so the hapless animal tumbled in the river after her, bleeting all the way. When Belle surfaced she heard the voices getting louder.

"Mademoiselle? Mademoiselle? His royal highness calls," a voice with the contours of a British accent rang out.

"I command you to open the door!" a much louder voice bellowed.

Belle looked at the goat in shock, who in return looked back at her bewildered. The prince. Wonderful. Belle sighed and began the struggle of pulling herself and the goat out of the water. She succeeded in slipping a few times into mud before she at last managed to get herself and the beast clear of the river. As she staggered back to her cabin, Nettie reluctant the whole way, she looked down at her dress, sopping wet and filthy and began to laugh. Very well, she thought to herself, let her receive his highness. All the better for him to understand the struggle of the common people.

"I'm here!" she called out as she began to climb the hill toward her home.

"Where?" demanded an arrogant voice, which she could only assume belonged to the prince. As Belle reached the top of the hill she spotted an elegant carriage parked just outside her home. Her eyes then travelled to see the prince, dressed in breeches, tall boots, and a burgandy jacket, looking around angrily. He was flanked by a number of well dressed men who Belle assumed were a mix of attendants and guards. Belle stood at the top of the hill and stretch her arms out from her sides, the sun falling down on her in all her filthy glory.

"Here," she called. The prince looked up and saw her, water and mud dripping from her dress, her hair half free from it's ponytail, her face smudged with dirt. The goat bleeted as though it too wanted to announce its arrival. An expression of shock and disgust twisted the prince's handsome features, and he was momentarily speechless.

Belle continued her walk toward her cottage, pulling the goat as she went.

"Forgive me your highness," Belle said as she approached, out of breath, curtseying, "I did not know when to expect you."

The prince continued to stare at her, appearing completely stunned at the current state of affairs.

"What is the meaning of this?" the prince snapped, composing himself enough to speak at last.

"Of what?" Belle asked innocently, suppressing the strong urge she had to smile.

"Of this!" the prince yelled, gesturing heatedly at Belle's filthy dress, his anger causing the goat to back away nervously.

"Nettie," Belle replied, glancing toward the goat.

"Talk sense girl," the prince snapped.

"Goats are very stubborn animals," Belle explained, "They often escape and are loathe to return to their pens. Retrieving them is quite difficult. As you can no doubt see for yourself, your majesty."

"I told you I would return, did I not?" the prince pressed, his voice low and rough with barely suppressed rage.

"You did," Belle responded evenly.

"And yet you make me wait for you and when you finally appear you stand before me like a filthy street urchin," the prince retorted.

"As I said, I did not-"

"Silence!" the prince thundered, "This is entirely unacceptable. How do you expect to show your town and discuss a public project with a prince in your current state? You look more fit for shoveling pig shit than consorting with royalty."

"I beg your pardon," Belle responded, fighting to keep her rising anger out of her voice, "I will of course clean myself and change my clothing so I am more presentable."

"And keep me waiting yet again?!" the prince yelled incredulously, "You expect me to wait on your doorstep until you deign to receive me, like a mutt begging for a scrap of food?"

"M-master?" the servant with the British accent stammered, "Perhaps we could wait at the tavern until the mademoiselle is more presentable?"

"I don't recall giving you permission to speak," the prince snapped, glowering at the servant. The prince turned back to Belle and looked her up and down angrily. There was no way around it, he could not have her as his escort in town in her present state and expect to be taken seriously by anyone. And a prince must always be taken seriously.

"First," the prince said, his voice as sharp and dangerous as a dagger, stepping closer to Belle so that she felt quite intimidated by his height and power, "I find you traveling with blatantly treasonous material right through the middle of town. Then you keep me waiting outside of your hovel, mock me with your current disgusting state, and now I must wait for you again while make yourself presentable."

"If waiting is something you hate so then why were you not more specific about when you would return?" Belle asked, losing her patience at last.

"I should strike you for your insolence," the prince bellowed, raising his fist. Rather than cower, Belle took a step closer to him and looked him straight in the eye. The prince's rage faltered, and his arm dropped back down to his side.

"Clean yourself," the prince growled, "Find me at the tavern when you are ready. By then I will have determined what I will do with you."

The prince turned on his heel and stomped toward his carriage, motioning for his servants to follow. They scurried after him, rushing to open the carriage door for him.

The British servant bowed to Belle and said, "Mademoiselle," before hurrying off to join the prince in the carriage. Belle watched the carriage pull away with an odd mixture of feelings, most of them unpleasant. So. She was to be at this prince's beck and call until he tired of her. It was the next worse thing to having a husband. She thought briefly of Gaston as she led Nettie back into her pen, and considered opening her trunk of fine clothing, remnants from her father's days as a successful merchant. She was not oblivious. She knew men enjoyed looking at her. Very well, she resolved, she would wear her beauty like armour when she went to meet with the prince. It was one of the tools she had at her disposal, and she was smart enough to recognize she would be a fool not to use it to her advantage, at least a little.

The prince strode into the tavern with the bluster that always punctuated his steps. He looked around the darkened room, his expression disdainful. It was little more than a hole in the wall, shabby customers and rickety looking furniture peppered the dimly lit establishment. The prince looked further to see that the walls were garishly decorated with numerous antlers from animals killed in a hunt. In the center was a painting of a muscular man who appeared enormously pleased with himself. Prince Adam suppressed his urge to laugh at the tasteless décor when a strong voice boomed from behind him.

"Your highness," said the voice, "How may we serve you?"

Adam turned to see a tall man with black hair and quickly recognized him as the man in the painting, and as the man in town who had presumptuously offered himself as an expert guide to the town.

"With ale," the prince responded shortly. He looked uncertainly at the nearest table, wondering if it had ever been thoroughly cleaned. Realizing he did not wish to stand while he waited for the mademoiselle, he reluctantly resigned himself to seating himself in the dubious establishment. The man snapped his fingers in the general direction of three blonde women, and they hurried to the bar to fulfill his unspoken order.

"Is there anything else you require your highness?" the man asked, respectful but obviously very bad at treating anyone with deference, the arrogance leaking out of his voice like the ale the tavern wenches were now pouring into glasses.

"Solitude." The prince answered flatly as the women brought his ale. Gaston demonstrated his general social ineptitude by continuing to hover near the prince. The prince took a deep draught from his stein and nearly choked.

"What is this, piss?" the prince sputtered, pushing the glass away in disgust. Gaston shifted his weight, offended but unable to hit anything which left him very confused as to what he should do. Were any other man to speak to him in such a way, in his own establishment no less, he would have beat him bloody. However, this was a prince, and even Gaston was smart enough to know that he had better play the part of a gracious subject or face dire consequences.

"I have something stronger," Gaston offered finally.

"Get it," the prince ordered. Gaston obligingly stomped away, and with his back turned to the prince his face twisted into anger and annoyance.

"Your majesty," protested Cogsworth, who had been standing behind the prince, "It is barely past midday."

"Why are you constantly reminding me of the time?" the prince barked, glaring at his fussy servant. Cogsworth was the type of man who held fast to tradition and routine. In Cogsworth's mind, a world that ran smoothly, predictably, and efficiently was an ideal one and something to be aspired to, which was probably why he had risen to the head of the prince's household. Waking before dawn, polishing silverware, starching collars, practicing good posture, and reserving heavy drinking for after dinner entertainment with cigars weren't simple manifestations of Cogsworth's fastidiousness. For him they were holy sacraments that upheld the order of civilizations and kept the unruly forces of chaos and anarchy at bay.

Prince Adam ignored the servant's silent disapproval and Gaston returned with a glass bottle that contained a brownish liquid and two shot glasses. The prince watched impassively as Gaston poured the liquid into the glasses and set the bottle down firmly on the table.

"To the king," Gaston declared, raising his glass, "Long may he reign."

Prince Adam raised an eyebrow and clinked his glass against Gaston's saying nothing. He quickly drained the contents of his glass. The liquor was not of particularly good quality, he was accustomed to much better, but it was indeed strong. And it was whiskey, which was the prince's preferred beverage.

"If I may?" Gaston requested, gesturing toward a chair at the table. The prince eyed him with an expression that was just short of open hatred.

"If you must," the prince snarled. Gaston, never very aware of when his presence was not appreciated, seated himself across from the prince.

"Another?" Gaston asked, and the prince pushed his glass toward him in reply.

"You own this establishment?" the prince asked after he had emptied his second shot.

"I do," Gaston replied, his chest swelling with pride. The prince thought about what a sad life that must be, to be the proprietor of some dingy shanty slinging drinks like a common tavern wench. The prince could almost pity him, were he interested enough in the man's life and capable of such an emotion.

"These are beasts you felled?" the prince said, mostly out of boredom, nodding toward the wall with antlers.

"I did," Gaston replied, seeming more intoxicated by his pride than the whiskey, "And many more than that."

The prince took another drink. He was going to need far more whiskey if he was going to suffer this man's company and be kept waiting for a peasant woman. A peasant woman who was not nearly as attractive as he remembered her in town. He hoped that it was the mud obscuring her beauty and that he had not been over generous in his initial appraisal of her.

"I suppose there is little else to occupy a man's time in such a place," the prince muttered.

"Well," Gaston said, "I wouldn't say that."

Gaston looked pointedly at the tavern wenches, who were eyeing him with adoration, ample bosoms heaving against the tight confines of their stays. The prince followed his gaze, but was unimpressed. Women who spent all their time lusting after a man's appreciation were no prize.

"And what of the girl I met in town," the prince asked, doing his best to seem as casual and disinterested as possible, "Does she occupy your time?"

"The inventor's daughter?" Gaston scoffed, taking another drink and all but slamming his glass on the table, "She's not worth my time."

"She's pleasant to look at, is she not?" the prince asked, adjusting the cuffs of his jacket.

"The most beautiful girl in town," Gaston admitted reluctantly, "I used to think that made her the best."

The prince decided that he would seem far too interested in the matter if he pressed the subject, but noted, based on Gaston's tone and facial expression that there was most definitely a history between this man and the mademoiselle.

"Have you a deck of cards?" the prince asked suddenly, deciding he could use a distraction.

Gaston leaned back in his chair and motioned toward his wenches.

"A deck of cards for his highness," Gaston told one of them, who at hurried to obey him.

"Shall I provide your stake?" the prince asked, dismissively dropping a bag of gold onto the table.

"No need, your highness," Gaston responded, retrieving his own bag of gold from his belt, refusing to be bettered even if it were by a prince. He motioned for the other men in the tavern to join the game, as the prince poured himself another drink.


	7. Debts and Deals

Belle entered the tavern to find the prince and Gaston locked in a game of cards, each staring intently at each other as though they were wordlessly calling one another's bluff. The door shut behind her, the noise causing Gaston to look up. The prince, however, did not break his gaze to acknowledge Belle's presence.

Gaston was irritated to see that Belle looked as beautiful as ever, more so even. The pretty brunette had her hair piled on top of her head in a sophisticated upsweep, the usual unruly strands that typically escaped her hair style were now curled and framing her heart-shaped face. Liner had been used to accentuate the lovely shape of her eyes, and a small amount of rouge had been applied to her full mouth, but beyond this she wore no make-up. Her flawless skin needed no powder, and she all but glowed in the candle light of the tavern. Her dress was made out of satin, a shimmering mauve that brought out the rosiness in her complexion and lips.

Everyone stared, even the tavern wenches, in a state of reluctant awe. The prince, however, with his back to the entrance where Belle stood, easily continued to ignore her.

"Your majesty, the mademoiselle has-" Cogsworth began, shuffling up timidly to the prince's side. The prince interrupted him with a gesture, and continued to consider his cards. The servant retreated, seeming to Belle to be thoroughly cowed by the prince.

"Will you place your bet? Or do you need to excuse yourself to the privy for a moment to release some frustration so you can concentrate on the game?" the prince mocked, watching Gaston visually undress Belle. The other men in the tavern laughed, and Gaston tore his eyes away from Belle to glare down at his cards.

"I raise you," Gaston grumbled, tossing some coins into the middle of the table. The prince's face remained impassive. Belle smoothed her skirts, remaining silent. Standing directly behind the prince, she could clearly see the prince's hand. It was strong but beatable. As she considered the game she honestly had no idea which of the arrogant men she would prefer to win this hand.

"You don't know when to quit," the prince said, tossing gold coins onto the table the way a cook might throw beans into a kettle.

Gaston's mouth twisted into a self-satisfied smirk. He laid his cards on the table and then leaned back in his chair, thoroughly satisfied. A full moment of tense silence passed, as everyone in the tavern watched and waited. Even Belle found herself far more interested in the outcome that she would have liked to be. The prince laid his cards on the table and Gaston broke into arrogant laughter, seemingly unable to contain himself as the prince pushed the pile of coins toward the tavern owner in defeat. The prince took another swig of whiskey as Gaston began to rise from his seat, victorious.

"Are you going somewhere?" the prince asked impetuously, his tone challenging, causing Gaston to freeze.

"Our game is finished," Gaston told the prince, gesturing to the now exposed cards laying on the table. Now it was the prince's turn to smirk.

"Our game," the prince said, retrieving more coins and placing them decisively on the table, "Is not finished until I say it is."

"You…request a rematch?" Gaston asked uncertainly, his tone quavering slightly from the effort it took to restrain himself.

"No," the prince replied coolly, "I demand a rematch."

Gaston remained frozen in place, half standing, half sitting, his expression visibly irate. The prince seemed to enjoy this, and sat at his ease in his own chair, his posture unburdened, his expression cocky. A beat passed between them, and the prince rose from his seat to stand over Gaston.

"Sit." The prince ordered, "Now."

Gaston glared into the prince's face. It took all of his considerable strength not to strike his emminence. The tavern wenches and bar patrons looked on in fear and apprehension, the atmosphere as taught as a lion's haunches just before it leaps to make its kill. Setting his prominent jaw, Gaston lowered himself back into his chair. The prince eased back into his own seat.

"That's better," he said, as he began to shuffle the cards.

"Master?" the rotund servant meekly inquired.

"What?" the prince snapped as he dealt the cards.

"Since it seems you intend to engage the Monsieur at playing cards for quite some time, would it not be appropriate to invite the mademoiselle to sit?" the servant asked, twisting his hands in anxiety behind his back as he spoke. The prince stopped dealing the cards to look over his shoulder at the servant. His eyes shifted to Belle, and his hardened expression softened momentarily as he beheld her. So he had not overestimated her beauty after all, and though he had seen his share of attractive women, he was momentarily stunned by her. He quickly regained his composure, however, and his expression reclaimed it impenetrability.

"No," the prince stated flatly, meeting Belle's gaze, "She kept me waiting. Let her stand until we are finished."

Belle raised her chin slightly in defiance, resolving to remain rooted to the spot, to not so much as shift her weight. After all, Gaston was eyeing her smugly, and she would give neither him nor the prince the satisfaction of watching her squirm. The prince turned back to the game, please with his ability to exercise his royal might over these peasants.

The men returned to their games and their drinking, each winning some hands but losing others, determined to prove their skill and luck to the other. Gaston appeared entirely consumed with showing the prince his superiority, at least at cards. The prince was thoroughly committed to humiliating Gaston as completely as possible. And so their games continued as the day travelled diligently from early afternoon to evening. Belle looked on, ignoring the cramping in her legs as she stood for hours. Why had she come dressed so finely to watch what was essentially a pissing contest between two men she loathed? If only she could deal herself in and beat them both at their own childish game. As she watched, she found them both to be fearless when it came to bluffing and betting, but the men had no ability to bide their time and cultivate a strategy. She'd be damned, though, if she were to step in to help either of them and so they played on, winning and losing at fairly equal turns while she mentally corrected the men's foolhardy plays.

When the light of day had sank beneath the covers of the horizon, and the candles lay low in their cradles of tallow, the prince at last seemed to gain the upper hand. He had won the last few rounds in a row, and Gaston was fast running out of gold with which to bet.

"You'll have to fold," the prince remarked, looking pointedly at the bare table beside Gaston that had once bore his winnings.

"I don't fold," Gaston told the price, his muscular arms crossed, his face arranged into a scowl.

"You have no bet to place," the prince explained, in a patronizing tone, "Gambling is a game that requires a wager." Gaston scowled, then began looking around for anything that he could offer as a bet.

Gaston stood up, pacing the floor of his tavern. He grabbed one of his blonde tavern wenches by the waist and pushed her toward the table.

"A night with this one," Gaston, thrusting her toward the prince. The prince raised his eyebrow, seemingly unimpressed, and Gaston added, "A night with her and her sisters."

"Do you honestly think I need to win a bet to spend a night with her or her sisters?" the prince retorted. Gaston scowled and pushed the young woman away roughly.

"As much free whiskey as you like?" Gaston offered.

"I already have as much free whiskey as I like from the finest distilleries in Europe," the prince replied, "Fold."

"My tavern," Gaston said suddenly. The prince raised his eyebrows in surprise. The patrons in the tavern began muttering, looking at each other and to Gaston in surprise.

"Gaston you can't!" Lefou exclaimed, running to Gaston's side, "If you lose you'll—"

"I won't lose," Gaston said resolutely, pushing the little man to the side with such force he stumbled into a nearby table and chairs, "But, if I win, that's it. Our game is over. No rematches."

The prince considered this deal for a moment, his blue eyes calculating. Then he held out his hand and he and Gaston shook on the deal.

"Done," the prince proclaimed, laying down his cards. Gaston's eyes widened in disbelief, then his face fell and for a moment Belle was moved to pity him.

"No," he said, "No, it-it can't be."

The prince said nothing, sitting in mock civility like a parent waiting for their child to finish tantruming.

"Please, sir, you can't be serious. Mercy! Mercy your grace! I did not want to keep playing! You made me, you forced me. Please your highness, you can't take the tavern from me, it's all I have. Without it I'm nothing, please," Gaston pleaded, his voice frantic, falling on his knees before the prince.

"You embarrass yourself," the prince said coldly. "It is not my mercy you need but a lesson in humility. Any idiot understands that when you play a game with your social betters, you let them win. No, you sir have far too high an estimation of yourself."

"But I—please, please your highness, I have nothing. No lands, no titles, only this, I'll be out on the street," Gaston continued to beg.

"Might you not consider letting Gaston continue to manage the place, at least?" Belle said, stepping up to the prince's side. She did not quite understand why she felt the need to cushion Gaston's fall from grace, only that she found the prince's toughness unbearable. The prince looked at her, almost amused.

"Very well," the prince said, "Thank the woman for your new position as tavern wench in this establishment."

Gaston looked from Belle to the prince, suddenly wondering if they were in on this humiliation together. Certainly it made sense, why Belle had rejected him, why the prince had humiliated him in town and now in his own tavern.

"Sir this woman is not worthy of your affections," Gaston said, "She harbors treasonous ideas about the crown, sir, she is probably colluding with revolutionaries who want your head on a silver plate!"

Belle looked at Gaston with shock and anger. She had just tried to save Gaston's ability to make a living for himself and he repaid her by telling the prince he should probably have her beheaded as a revolutionary. How was it exactly that she had managed to get herself in so much trouble over the course of the last few days?

"You're drunk," the prince spat, turning to his men he said, "Guards, remove him."

Belle watched as three guards tackled the muscular man, who put up an admirable fight, especially given his inebriated condition. Eventually, however, the guards were successful in dragging him out of the tavern, and he shouted and kicked furniture over as he went. The prince watched him, the corner of his mouth lifted in a half smile. He basked for a moment in his total triumph over the tavern owner, then remembered the mademoiselle.

"You may sit now," the prince told Belle, gesturing magnanimously to the now empty chair across from him.

"No thank you," Belle replied, though her feet ached, "I'll stand."

"Come,"the prince said, chuckling, "Sit with me. It's a great honor, you know, to sit at the same table as a prince."

"An honor I clearly do not deserve," Belle said.

"Please mademoiselle," said the portly servant, coming around to the table and pulling out a chair, "It pains me to watch you stand any longer. Will not you not put me at ease and sit with his grace?"

Belle looked at the servant and felt quite taken with his earnest expression. She wanted to hold her ground against the prince, but could not quite bring herself to spurn the servant's request.

"If it so pleases you," Belle demurred, sweeping up to the table and descending gracefully into the chair, smoothing her skirts around her. The prince looked her over, his expression slightly calculating. Up close, in the candle light, she was nearly irresistible. He had lost count of the number of drinks he'd had, and was finding it very difficult indeed to deny his attraction to the comely commoner. How could a peasant be so perfect physically, so charming in her graces? Though her rebellious spirit made him want to treat her roughly, something else held him back. He felt like a destructive child who stops short of ripping the wings off a butterfly. He had no difficulty, as someone very powerful, being cruel to those who were weak, helpless even. Those on top were fewer than those on the bottom of society. Those on top stayed on top because their force of will was mightier than the bottom's show of numbers. And yet, there was something in this woman that made him…hesitate.

"Bring the mademoiselle some wine," the prince ordered.

"Thank you your highness," Belle responded, "But I am not thirsty."

"Water is for thirst," the prince told her, "I asked for wine."

"No thank you, your grace," Belle said quietly, looking down at the table, smoothing her hair back from her brow.

"Drink." The prince commanded. One of the blonde women came and stood at Belle's side with a tray, upon which stood a half full glass of wine. Belle glanced up at the glass, and then looked back to the prince. His expression was set, it was clear he had given her an order. Belle locked eyes with him, and reached for the bottle of whiskey. She poured the liquid into the empty shot glass nearest her, setting the bottle firmly down on the table between them. The prince watched her, and she looked back at him, defiant but also a little mischievous. She raised the shot glass to her lips and tilted her head back to drain it in one gulp before slamming it back down on the table. She met his gaze again and raised an eyebrow, almost as if to dare him.

The prince blinked and straightened his posture. He drummed his fingers on the table for a moment, a number of different feelings wrestling for dominance within him. He did not know whether to laugh, punish her, or kiss her. She was still looking at him, captivating hazel eyes sparkling. Damn her. He would not allow her the upper hand. He pulled the whiskey bottle toward himself and slowly poured himself a drink.

"So," he said slowly, swilling the liquid in his glass, "I have decided what it is I am going to do with you."

Belle waited, saying nothing. It seemed best to remain silent so as not to irk him further. She found it difficult to gauge the prince's personality accurately. Certainly he was no Prince Charming, but to what lengths his cruelty could go, she did not know. It was not easy to tell, between the prince and Gaston, who was the lesser evil. She was so grateful that her father was away at the fair, out of both the prince's and Gaston's path, and did not have to deal with all this trouble.

"As I've said," the prince continued, "I cannot bear to be kept waiting. I've chosen you to serve me in completing this project of mine, yet you seem incapable of obeying even the simplest order on your own. The thing to do, then, is to teach you how to serve me better."

"And how do you intend to teach me, your highness?" Belle asked, her tone even, "Whip me, strike me, flog me?"

"And risk marring that beauty of yours?" the prince responded, "I'm a superficial man, I could never bring myself to such a transgression."

"What then?" Belle pressed, finding she was not as frightened as she probably ought to be.

"You will stay in my castle where you can better carry out my instructions," the prince told her.

"And I will be free to come and go as I please?" Belle asked.

"Of course not," the prince snapped, "I need you to be there when I need you."

"I believe I have recently rejected a similar proposal from a similar man," Belle replied. She pushed the whiskey bottle out of the way and leaned across the table toward the prince, "No. I'm sorry, I must decline. My father needs me."

The prince smiled at her coldly and sighed deeply. He had expected her to refuse. It was true, he was prone to being hot headed and making rash decisions. This time, however, he had come prepared.

"I've been very…curious about you, you know," the prince said, looking her up and down slowly, his eyes lingering at her neckline before he slowly brought them back up to her face, "My status leaves me in a unique position to discover information about people, as I'm sure you can imagine."

"If this is about what I read, I-" Belle began, but the prince slammed his fist down on the table to silence her.

"I don't give a damn what you read," the prince countered, "I, however, have been doing some very interesting reading indeed, Belle Desjardins."

"I don't recall giving you my name," Belle said, now becoming anxious as to where this was all leading.

"I never asked for it, not from you anyway," the prince said coldly. He hesitated to consider her and saw the apprehension in her face. Pleased with himself, he continued, "You know, it's funny you should mention your father a few moments ago. Maurice Desjardins. Yes, I've come across his name as well. As it turns out, he owes an outstanding amount of taxes to the crown."

"Please," Belle began to plead, "Not my father. Leave him out of this. Let me pay off the debt, I'll work day and night, I'll sell my body if I have to, just please, please leave him alone. He's been through enough."

"I could have my men track him down tonight and toss him into the filthiest debtor's prison in France," the prince said slowly, his words a poison he forced Belle to swallow. He did not need to wait long to see them have their effect. Belle sprang from her chair and threw herself at the prince's feet. She was frantic now, how could she have endangered her father so? She would never forgive herself for her recklessness.

"No! Please, I'll do anything! Please! Grant us mercy your grace! Punish me but please spare my father," Belle pleaded, beginning to weep. The prince glared down at her, but for a moment did not speak. She continued to sob, a sound that he found he did not enjoy in the least. He raised his hand reflexively to retrieve a handkerchief from his breast pocket to give to the girl, but he stopped himself.

"You agree to come to the castle then?" the prince asked, his voice nearly soft. Belle looked up and wiped the tears from her face, her breath still catching in her throat.

"If I do, will you let him go?" Belle asked. Perhaps the whiskey had left his feelings exposed, but as he looked down into Belle's sweet heart-shaped face he found himself moved by the girl's bravery and innocence. She knelt as his feet, such a lovely creature, and for an instant he regretted putting her in such a position.

"Yes," he told her, "His debts will be forgiven."

Belle looked away, thinking this over. Her freedom was what she wanted more than anything in the world. But she had made a promise. Her mother, knowing she would die, had made a request of the father and daughter she was leaving behind. "Take care of each other," she had told them. It was her last wish, and Belle and Maurice had agreed. Belle was a young woman now, and her father was increasingly unable to take care of himself, let alone her. It was time for Belle to step into the space her mother left in the family and be the responsible adult that took care of everyone. Belle swallowed hard, digesting the bitter pill of what needed to be done.

"Very well," Belle told the prince, "I will come to the castle."

"Ready the horses," the prince ordered the servants, standing suddenly, preparing to go.

"Wait!" Belle exclaimed, rising disoriented by the rapid turn of events, "I've had no time to prepare! Who will look after my cottage, see to the animals? Can we not wait until my father has come home? So I can say goodbye at least?"

"We leave now," the prince snapped, "Your cottage and your father are no longer your concern."

"But please, I must see to everything, I can't just leave in the middle of the night!" Belle protested.

"You will come with me now!" the prince thundered, "Don't make me have the guards drag you."

Belle opened her mouth to again protest, but saw ice that would not be melted when she looked into the prince's blue eyes. She also feared pushing the prince, he could at any moment decide to renege on their deal and imprison her father after all. Maurice was far too old and vulnerable to survive the likes of prison, she would not endanger his welfare any further. Resigning herself stoically to her fate, she hung her head as tears slid silently down her cheeks. The prince donned his cloak and motioned to his servants. He finished his drink and then strode out of the tavern, and she followed him into the night.

As they approached the carriage, the prince stopped and looked over his shoulder at her. A breeze fluttered Belle's skirts, and she wrapped her arms around herself. Her sweet face looked so unbearably sad, the moon tracing the course of her tears with silver fingers. Startled at his own inability to withstand her distress, he approached her. Wordlessly, he unbuttoned his cloak and draped it over her shoulders. She looked up at him, pleasantly surprised but not quite grateful. He reached for his handkerchief, wanting to dry the tears from her face himself, but held it out to her instead. She took it, watching him suspiciously, and slowly wiped her eyes. He turned on his heel and continued his walk to the carriage. Servants opened the doors for him, and he stopped and motioned for Belle to go in first. She dutifully climbed in and sat herself, and he followed, the servants shutting the doors after them. As the carriage rattled down the road, Belle pulled the cloak tighter around her as though to protect herself, and turned to look out of the back window to watch her little town recede into the distance.


	8. Be Our Guest

The dining hall, though enormous, was so quiet that one could hear the ticking of the clocks punctuating each second. The servants, not oblivious to the tension, hurried from the table to the kitchens, doing their best to avoid eye contact with both their masters and each other. Adam and his father ate in silence, the dauphin's eyes searing into his son as Adam did his best to drink his tea nonchalantly and pretend not to feel the heat of his father's gaze. Adam had thought, apparently incorrectly, that his father would have left for his hunting trip by now. Seeing his father glowering at him over the breakfast table when he at last stumbled out of the west wing was nearly as painful as the hangover he was nursing from that peasant's swill.

"You have no intention of explaining yourself?" his father demanded at last, his tone a whetstone on which he sharpened his words.

"I continue to carry out your orders," the prince responded casually, smirking at his father. His father eyed him, unamused, and then brought his fist hammering down on the table with such force that it shook all the china and caused even the prince to flinch.

"My orders were to act as an emissary to these peasants and to display charity that would help quell the anti-royal sentiment that is spreading like a plague that, I promise you, will wipe us all out if we do not take preventative measures. And what do you do? You practice diplomacy by humiliating the town hero and kidnapping the most beautiful woman in town. Wars have been started for less, you idiot boy," his father shouted, anger and disgust rising from his voice to shake the chandeliers. The prince nearly felt ashamed, but was more committed to preserving his pride than admitting to his wrongdoings.

"I haven't kidnapped anyone. You make it sound like I'm Paris and I have abducted Helen of Troy. I merely gave the mademoiselle an opportunity to serve me better, an opportunity she agreed to," the prince said, taking a sip of tea both in an effort to appear unruffled by his father's anger and to better avoid his father's gaze.

" 'Come with me or I will imprison your father,' sounds distinctly more like a threat than an opportunity," his father retorted, "Do you take me for a fool? You had no one's interests in mind save your own, as always."

"She gets to leave the disgusting shanty she calls a home and live in a castle!" Adam exclaimed, spreading his arms at his sides to indicate his largess, "I would argue I saved her!"

"My God, who have I raised?" his father muttered, shaking his head in revulsion and disbelief.

"No one," Adam snapped, "It was the servants who raised me while you hunted and whored your way around Europe."

In a flash Adam's father pushed his seat back and stood with such force that the heavy chair fell, clamoring loudly against the marble floor. He swept to Adam's side, glowering over him, face red, body shaking. This man was a tall, distinguished, fils de France, and was even less accustomed to being challenged than his unruly son. Adam at first ignored his father by continuing to drink from his tea cup. His father's gaze, however, was intense and unflinching and won the silent standoff between the two men. Adam set his cup down decisively in its saucer and turned in his seat to look up at his father, defiance set in his flashing blue eyes like jewels in a crown.

The elder man all at once swung his arm back and unleashed his full fury by striking his son with considerable force in his eye and cheekbone. His father wore heavy gold and silver rings with several large precious gems, so the punch felt to Adam like being hit in the face with a rock hurled by someone with an exceptionally good arm. Adam reeled to the side and reflexively brought his hand to his face to nurse his wound. He looked down, furious and humiliated, attempting to blink tears of pain and shock out of his eyes.

"I loved your mother," his father said, breathing heavily, "And I have let that influence how I treat you. I have never told you no, given you everything you've wanted, installed you in a castle that is nearly as grand as the palace at Versailles, provided you with a lavish allowance even as you contribute nothing to your family or the country. You would think you would be grateful given your position."

Adam did not respond, glaring down into his lap, hating his father, wishing he could bring himself to hit him back. He could feel his father watching him, looking over what was probably the beginning of a significant bruise now coloring his face.

"You will fix this matter. By the time your wedding comes on your 21st birthday you will have completed your charity project and won over the entire town. I want to hear peasants singing your praises in the street. You will demonstrate responsibility and philanthropy and show me that you are not a completely lost cause," his father proclaimed.

"Oh, is it time for me to learn a lesson father?"Adam scoffed, "And what if I don't care for your lesson? What will you do? Strike me again? Imprison me? You are an old man who his losing his grip on power. Over me, over this country. You're in no position to teach me a lesson, you're a joke."

His father's skin flushed with rage, and for a moment Adam thought he would strike him again. Adam raised his face to look him in the eye, silently daring him. In that moment he thought of Belle, of her restrained defiance and felt a kinship with her that rushed through him before it was quelled by the coldness in his father's fathomless stare.

"You will do this," his father answered, "Or I will revoke the legitimacy your mother begged me to bestow upon you on her death bed. You forget yourself, Adam. You are nothing more than a bastard from your father's favorite consort. I legitimized you for your mother, not for you. And I will take it back should you continue to disobey me. You will have no title, no allowance, no inheritance. I will cast you out as a commoner from the house of Bourbon and even your own brothers will no longer acknowledge you."

Adam's expression fell from defiance to panic, and he searched his father's face in an attempt to discern how serious he was about this threat. His father's steely grey eyes told him he was deadly serious.

"No, you-you can't!" Adam exclaimed, "Please father, please be reasonable."

Adam clutched the hem of his father's jacket, beseeching him, never before so vulnerable or so threatened. He raised his face to look into his father's, begging him with his gaze, silently tugging at their bonds of kinship as he clutched the man's garment. His father's countenance remained impenetrable, his brow furrowed.

"Mercy father," Adam begged, "I beg you, father, please. I will obey you, I will be a good son, I promise. I swear it to you father."

"You will be granted mercy when you display some yourself," his father snapped, pulling himself away from Adam's grasp, looking down at his son with disdain, "My orders stand. I must prepare for my journey. Get out of my sight."

Adam blinked, dazed even more by the impact of his father's words than he was by his fist. He absentmindedly brought his hand up to his face, his eyes resting on his unfinished breakfast, his mind attempting to grasp what had just transpired. He looked once more at his father, whose posture remained resolute. His father tilted his head slightly to the side as if to ask Adam if he again needed another punch to understand that he had been dismissed. Adam hesitated, then set his expression to a scowl and turned on his heel to storm out of the dining hall to the west wing, where he could sulk and lick his wounds.

* * *

Belle hurried to conceal her presence as the prince stormed past, curling herself into the small space between a suit of armor and the marble wall. The prince, however, was far too preoccupied to notice his newest charge hiding beside the entrance to the dining room. Belle craned around the the wide shoulders of the armor to watch the prince storm away. She had originally dressed and made her way to the dining hall (which hadn't exactly been easy to find in the cavernous castle) to confront the prince, to demand what it was exactly he intended to do with her. Or at the very least, she had planned to make him uncomfortable with her presence. But the sound of the agitated royals' voices had caused her pause, and she thought it best not to reveal herself in the midst of their argument. She had, of course, heard everything. Belle was pleased to know that the prince, in fact, needed her approval even more than she needed his. As someone who appreciated the power of information, Belle resolved to use this knowledge to her advantage as it significantly improved her position.

"Are my provisions packed?" she heard a deep voice boom, causing her to hurry once more to conceal herself.

"At once sire," a voice responded, and Belle recognized the accent as belonging to Cogsworth. Servants hurried past, bustling around the castle to follow their master's orders as quickly as possible.

"Very well then. Let me be finished with this damn place," the voice rumbled. Belle held her breath as the sound of footsteps and rustling robes approached. The sound stopped very near to where Belle was, and she cringed. This was not how she wanted to introduce herself to his highness, crouched behind the décor like a stowaway in the royal household. Adam's father continued to hesitate in the entrance of the dining hall, the authority of his presence pressing down upon Belle even as she couldn't see him. Then the footsteps continued and receded into the distance. Breathing a sigh of relief, Belle relaxed.

"Mademoiselle?" a voice asked, causing Belle to tense once more. She waited, hoping that the voice was addressing someone else.

"Mademoiselle?" the voice persisted. Belle rolled her eyes at herself and reluctantly stepped out from her hiding spot. She saw a kindly looking man, middle aged but still handsome in a charming, idiosyncratic sort of way, smiling at her.

"Begging your pardon, Monsieur," Belle said with a curtsy, "I seem to have lost my way."

The man continued to eye her with interest. Certainly he did not seem angry to find her hiding in the doorway. In fact, if Belle was reading his expression correctly, he seemed amused.

"So you are even more beautiful than they say," the man said, his accent thick with a provincial French that Belle could not quite place. Belle blushed and looked away.

"Might I trouble you for some breakfast?" Belle asked, her stomach rumbling as she realized she had not had dinner the previous night and that, in fact, it had been over 24 hours since she had last eaten anything at all.

"Of course!" the man exclaimed, his expression now arranged into one of concern, "Anything you want, name it and its yours! Come ma cherie, allow me to escort you to the dining room."

"You don't need to go to any extra trouble," Belle demurred, "Just some tea and rolls would do just fine."

"Nonsense!" the man exclaimed, pulling out a chair for her at the enormous, now vacant, dining room table, "You aren't a prisoner! You are our guest! We must make you feel welcome here!"

"What is the meaning of this?" Cogsworth blustered, hurrying into the dining room from the kitchen, "We don't have approval from the master to—"

"The mademoiselle is hungry! Are we not here to serve?" the man demanded, scowling at Cogsworth.

"Fine, do as you like and I'll be the one who incurs the master's wrath while you're off canoodling with a maid behind a curtain somewhere," Cogsworth huffed, "We wouldn't want to break our routine, now would we?"

"Honestly, you don't have to go to any trouble," Belle interrupted, "The table is filled with food, I can just—"

"C'est impossible!" the man exclaimed, "Mademoiselle, I never serve leftovers, certainly not to someone as lovely as yourself."

"I don't believe I have ever properly introduced myself," the portly servant began, coming to Belle's side and bowing, "I am Cogsworth, head of the household—"

"And I am Lumiere," the other servant said, nudging Cogsworth out of the way and taking Belle's hand to kiss it fervently, "Enchante cherie. If there is anything you require during your stay here, please know I am your humble servent, ready to attend to your every—"

"Then lets get breakfast on for the poor child already!" an older woman interrupted, who exuded both warmth and authority. She approached Belle, smiling, "I'm Mrs. Potts dear."

"Nice to meet you," Belle answered, "I'm Belle."

"Well, you certainly are aptly named," Mrs. Potts replied, brushing a stray hair away from Belle's brow in a motherly gesture, "Madame Armoire will be thrilled to style outfits for you."

"She's so pretty mama!" a little boy exclaimed, running up to Belle and standing on tip toe, eager to get a closer look at her, "Is the master going to keep this one?"

"Hush Chip, back to the kitchen with you, go on," Mrs. Potts admonished the child, she then turned to Belle and patted her kindly on the arm, "I'll make sure the fires are stoked for your breakfast."

"Now," Lumiere said excitedly, a sparkle in his eyes, "We must call Fife and arrange for some entertainment for our guest!"

"Entertainment?!" Cogsworth exclaimed, "This is breakfast! And I hardly think the master would appreciate such a racket."

"Racket?!" Lumiere replied, "Monsieur, our musicians are the most talented in all the kingdom. And we have yet to display our excitement at the mademoiselle's arrival! Surely you agree, as head of household, that we must extend our hospitality to our guest?"

Cogsworth glared at Lumiere, but then looked to Belle, who met his gaze and blushed at the trouble she was causing. Cogsworth was not one to tolerate rudeness under any circumstances, and quickly became aware that he was making the young woman uncomfortable. He cleared his throat and fidgeted with his pocketwatch, unsure of what to do.

"Very well," Cogsworth conceded, "But if the master comes down, you'll be the one to explain—"

"Of course, of course," Lumiere said, "But what would a musical ensemble be without a solo from the incredibly talented maitre d?"

"Wait a minute—" Cogsworth blustered, running after Lumiere and attempting to control the chaos that was erupting as servants poured into the dining room with plates full of food and the castle's musicians began to play lively music. Belle laughed and clapped her hands at the display, as Lumiere reveled in the attention he received from the beauty and Cogsworth's anxiety unwittingly played as a comical foil to Lumiere's bon vivant charm.


	9. Forbidden

They needn't have worried about the master interrupting their show. Prince Adam sulked at the table in his study in the west wing thoroughly consumed with his own misery. Tentatively he pressed his hand to his cheekbone, but hissed at the pain. He hated his father more in this moment than he ever had before, which, given the less than amicable relationship he had with the man, was saying something. He contemplated life as a commoner, looking out of his window absentmindedly. He often wondered if his father felt any real affection for him, and his father's threat echoed in his mind as the answer.

A knock on the door interrupted his self-pity, momentarily.

"Go away!" he thundered. He was embarrassed enough to want his privacy, yet childish enough to wonder what had taken the servants so long to check in on his welfare.

"Please your highness," a female voice called, accented with bucolic french that somehow managed to sound sultry rather than simple, "I must attend to your wound."

Adam recognized the voice as that of one of his favorite servants, but his pride kept him from answering. After a moment of protracted silence, he heard the click of a door handle turning, and the swish of the massive doors to his living quarters swinging open. Adam waited as his servant walked through his bedroom and turned the corner to find him at his desk. She hesitated, than approached, carrying a basin filled with warm water and a rag.

"Mon pauvre prince," she cooed, setting the basin down on his desk. Adam admired his maid's ample bosom as she leaned over to wring the cloth and then bring it to his face.

"Are you in pain, your highness?" Babette asked, her full lips pulled downward into a frown.

"I barely feel it," the prince responded, appreciating how his maid's uniform clung to her in certain places, and all but fell off of her in others.

"You are so strong, your majesty," Babette replied, her gaze glancing ever so slightly downward to the swell of muscle just visible beneath Adam's thin linen shirt. Adam suppressed a smirk and looked her over, far more obvious with his desire than she. He needed a distraction from all of the unpleasantness of this morning and the previous day, and Babette was always a welcome diversion. As she leaned over him, gently wiping his face with the cloth, he held her gaze and slowly untied her apron. It fell gently to the floor like a feather, and Babette raised an eyebrow.

"Attend me," the prince ordered quietly. Babette paused in her administrations to the prince's wound.

"Am I not attending you already, your grace?" she answered, widening her eyes, adept at the art of the tease.

The prince responded by taking the ends of the laces of her bodice in his hands, twisting them playfully around his fingers. Babette pulled away. Of course they both knew what the outcome of this exchange was going to be, but she also knew that the prince preferred a conquest to surrender.

The prince stood from his seat and stepped closer to her, as though challenging her to leave. Her gaze travelled slowly up his toned form to his face. Their eyes locked, neither making any secret of their intentions. Babette descended slowly to the ground while the prince watched her. She paused, staying crouched on the floor, and glanced up at the blue eyes that were fixed on her bosom. The prince brought his hands to his waist. Babette observed him as he began playing with the laces to his breeches and slowly tugging on them. Babette sighed, reached for her apron that lay beside her on the floor, and slowly stood.

"Should I leave you to rest, your highness?" Babette asked, "You've had a difficult morning."

"Does it look like I want to rest?" the prince scoffed, wresting Babette's apron from her hand and throwing roughly aside.

"Should I bring you something?" Babette persisted, walking backwards away from the prince as he followed her, his step predatory, "Some tea? Water? A poultice for your bruise?"

The prince laughed, then suddenly grabbed Babette as though he were a beast lunging for his prey. He brought his mouth to hers, and she returned his kiss passionately.

"Please, your highness," she breathed, pulling her mouth away from his but leaving it tantalizing close as the tendrils of her accent curled prettily around her speech, "I am your servant, what if someone were to catch us?"

"Did they catch us any of the other times?" the prince asked, now urgent in his handling of the laces on Babette's bodice, bringing his mouth to hers once more as her dress cascaded to the floor. He grasped her full derriere, the bottom of which was exposed beneath her garter belt.

"I should return to the kitchens," Babette exclaimed, extricating herself from his embrace, and bending over to retrieve her dress, further revealing her backside to the ravenous prince. The prince admired both her curves and her skill at the chase. Babette wasn't just a pretty face. She knew how to titilate, how to seduce, how to build tension though the final outcome was inevitable.

The prince grabbed her again, this time from behind. He held her tightly against his body with one arm, while his other hand roved over her. He began kissing her neck, and she sighed contentedly, craning her head to the side to offer him easier access. She flinched as his teeth dug into her and his hand slid between her thighs.

"We shouldn't," Babette gasped, attempting to wriggle free.

"Is this about Lumiere?" Adam breathed into her ear, tightening his grasp around his maid.

Babette was surprised to feel her stomach sink at her lover's name, and frowned. Adam felt her body slacken and began to kiss her neck with increased fervor, stroking the wetness between her legs. Babette closed her eyes, her lips parted as her body succumbed to sensation. However, Lumiere crept back into her thoughts, ruining her pleasure, and she felt genuinely torn. No longer teasing, she again attempted to pull away. Adam tightened his grip on her until she felt like she was being crushed.

"Please," she gasped, her tone now pleading, "Your highness…"

"You think Lumiere thinks of you while he's fucking Angelique?" the prince scoffed into her ear, "I've caught them en flagrante and I promise you, it's not your name he's shouting."

Babette froze, unbidden emotions seizing her more strongly than the prince. She knew she was not the lone recipient of the charismatic maitre d's attention. He radiated charm and women were drawn to him, moths to a flame. She knew this, had sworn to herself she would not allow herself to feel anything deeper than flirtatious interest in Lumiere. It wasn't as if she suffered from neglect, a shrinking violet starved for attention. So why then, as she stood in her under garments in a handsome prince's strong arms, his hardness pressed against her, was she thinking of how it felt when Lumiere's fingers grazed her hand?

Adam, now impatient, expertly undid the laces of her stay and tugged it off of her. Babette, not at all shy about her body, felt strangely exposed, and her eyes rested on the fine curtains that hung from the ceiling to floor windows in the prince's quarters. As his hands roamed over her, taking in her bosom, the swell of her hips, her thighs, Babette's eyes traced the contours of the pattern that scrawled across the fine fabric like cursive on paper. She again closed her eyes, ambivalent. Then she felt the prince's finger enter her, and she gasped, her thoughts shattering like glass dropped carelessly to the floor.

He withdrew his hand and whirled her around to face him. He removed his shirt, and paused so that Babette could take in his broad chest, his toned abdomen. Then he pulled her into him, kissing her gently, pressing the heat of his flesh to the smoothness of her skin, like hot wax to paper. He undid her bun, causing her thick auburn hair to fall like rain around them, and he ran his fingers through it as he kissed her hungrily. Babette sighed and surrendered to him, as she always did, as most women did.

After a wonderful breakfast, Belle's attention returned to her present situation. All it had taken was a little charm and flattery for the servants to grant Belle a tour of the castle. She was determined to learn as much about her new environment as possible. She took in her surroundings carefully as Cogsworth and Lumiere led her through the castle, looking for anything she could use to her advantage and possibly as part of an escape, should things come to that.

She feigned great interest in Cogsworth's lengthy descriptions of the castle's architecture and décor. The more she appeared fascinated by his explanations, the longer he let her look around, linger, explore. She had to admit, the castle was stunning. The drapes, tapestries, and carpets were of the finest quality and bore intricate detail. She wondered how many hours it had taken countless weavers and seamstresses to dress the prince's home in such splendor. The architecture and furnishings were magnificent, the marble floors, vaulted ceilings, and stained glass windows a symphony of light and color. However, it was the priceless artwork that graced the endless rooms and corridors of the castle the Belle truly envied. The paintings were exquisite, she could have spent hours looking at only one of them.

Cogsworth and Lumiere continued the tour, leading Belle through the corridors of the cavernous castle. Guards and male servants would turn to better appreciate Belle's beauty as she passed and Cogworth would shout at them to continue their duties. Belle wandered over to a sweeping staircase, looking up in an attempt to see what was in that section of the castle. Cogworth and Lumiere rushed to block the mademoiselle from walking up the staircase, which only succeeded in arousing her suspicion.

"What's up there?" she asked. Cogsworth and Lumiere glanced at each other, and she read the panic in their expressions..

"There? Nothing of interest, dusty, junk, very boring." Cogsworth said quickly.

"May I see it?" Belle asked.

"See? Er, um, the master has forbidden this part of the castle to visitors," Cogsworth replied.

"Forbidden?" Belle asked, walking around the servants to proceed up the stairs "If it is as boring as you say, why would it be forbidden?"

"Eh, what I mean to say is," Cogsworth sputtered, running to again block her progress up the stairs, "Mademoiselle, please, perhaps you would like to see something else. We have exquisite tapestries dating all the way back to-"

"Later perhaps," Belle responded impatiently, again walking around the servant so that she could walk up the steps and satisfy her curiosity. Lumiere and Cogsworth exchanged frantic glances, knowing the master, who was already in a bad temper, would be furious if his newest charge burst unannounced into his living quarters.

"Perhaps mademoiselle would be interested in the gardens?" Lumiere volunteered, "Or the library perhaps?"

This appeared to pique Belle's interest. She stopped walking up the steps and turned to face them with an excited expression, her hazel eyes sparkling with interest.

"You have a library?!" she exclaimed, for a moment forgetting the trauma of the previous night and her lost freedom.

"Yes!" Cogsworth exclaimed, "With mountains of books!"

"Forests of books!" Lumiere chimed in, as the servants ran down the steps to lead her away from the West Wing and toward more innocuous areas of the castle.

"More books than you'll ever read in a lifetime!"Cogsworth continued, "Books on every subject!"

In their enthusiasm and relief, as they hurried away from the west wing to lead Belle toward the library, they failed to notice that Belle had not yet followed them down the corridor that led away from the west wing. She hesitated, then quickly turned and ran up the forbidden steps. She felt a little guilty, certainly, but also felt compelled to explore this forbidden area of the castle. Perhaps it was forbidden because it contained some secret or treasure or weakness that, if exposed, Belle could use to her advantage. She hoped she wouldn't get the servants in any trouble, but she could hardly ignore such an opportunity.

The staircase opened into a long corridor lined with mirrors, statues of angels, and various pieces of art. Though the castle was filled with beautiful and expensive things, the items in this corridor somehow conveyed a more personal and sentimental feeling, as though these objects were held in especially high esteem by the prince. Belle paused at a large painting that hung from the wall. It depicted a beautiful young woman in a pink dress with voluminous skirts that flowed over the settee and cushions upon which she was perched and spilled onto the floor. She had lovely blonde hair that poured over her shoulders like honey, and her eyes were a sea of blue and mystery. In the portrait she smiled, a book in her lap, her hand holding that of a little boy dressed in finery, a tiny jacket, vest, and breeches declaring his noble position. The little boy greatly resembled the woman, his hair also golden, his eyes a vivid blue. However, while the woman portrayed a certain open sweetness in her bearing and expression, the boy stood with his chin slightly raised as though he knew full well his position and the veneration due him. Belle looked more closely at the little boy's eyes. If she was not mistaken, she knew who this little boy grew up to become. Belle continued to study the portrait, considering the little boy. Unless there was some trick by the artist, the boy's eyes betrayed a look of mischief and precociousness that was somehow charming, despite the arrogance in his bearing.

Slowly, Belle moved away from the painting and approached an enormous set of double doors. Belle looked over her shoulder to see if the servants had followed her, but the corridor remained quiet save for her own footsteps. For a moment there was a struggle within her between guilt and curiosity, but curiosity gained the upper hand, compelling her to reach out and open the door.

She found herself in the doorway of a huge room, so enormous that for a moment she felt completely disoriented, blinking and a little dizzy. She stepped into the space uncertainly, looking all around her in an attempt to get her bearings. She continued to slowly pace the floor of the room, noticing a huge four poster bed, a few wardrobes, animal skins, and other sundry. It slowly began to dawn on her that this must be the prince's living quarters. Why had the servants not said so? Belle could easily understand that the prince wanted privacy while in his bedroom. She turned to leave, but became aware of a noise that caused her to freeze. It sounded like furniture moving, a loud creaking and thudding sound. She discerned moaning, and she became concerned that someone was hurt. Belle took a few more steps into the prince's chamber to better hear the noise. She turned a corner to see, much to her horror, the prince en flagrante with a member of his household. The maid sat on a desk, legs spread, head thrown back, with the prince thrusting into her.

Belle yelled out in shock and accidentally backed into a table, which fell over, clattering loudly on the marble floor, the sound echoing off the vaulted ceilings.

The prince and the maid stopped, the noise alerting them to the presence of an intruder. The maid jumped down from the desk, frantically collecting her clothing, and the prince reached for his pants, hurriedly pulling them over his sculpted form in a belated act of modesty. Belle remained frozen with her hands pressed up to her mouth.

"YOU!"the prince bellowed, quickly discovering the source of the interruption, "What are you doing here?"

Just then Cogsworth and Lumiere came running into the room, having discovered that their charge was no where to be found. They had feared the worst and now, surveying the scene in the west wing, those fears were confirmed.

"Babette!?" Lumiere exclaimed in surprise, addressing the disheveled maid. The young woman still held all of her clothing bundled in her arms, having barely had the chance to collect them off the ground. She held the bundle against herself, trying as best she could to cover her exposed body. Her skin was flushed red, whether it was from her recent exertion or her humiliation it was difficult to say, but she stood in the study as crimson as the curtains. She stared at the ground, her shoulders hunched, doubled over, looking as though she wished to make herself as small as possible.

The prince was still glaring at Belle, and he gave off such an aura of unbridled rage that Belle backed away from him instinctively. Even in her shock and fear, however, she registered the prince's shirtless torso, took in the sharp scent of his sweat. She looked away from him, blinking, unsteady.

"I-I'm sorry," Belle stammered, and she was genuinely contrite, "I didn't realize-"

"Why did you allow her to come here?" The prince interrupted, directing his fury at the servants.

"We, we, we tried, we thought-" Cogsworth ineffectually sputtered. Passions raised and thoroughly finished with humiliations for the day, the prince made no effort to control his outrage. He tore a mirror from a wall and hurled it at the servants.

"Leave! Get out!" the prince screamed at his servants, continuing to throw whatever items were in reach at them.

"Please, stop!" Belle shouted, desperate not to see the men who had shown her kindness be punished for her own wrong doing. The prince pivoted toward Belle, allowing her fully see the untempered rage in his face. She backed away but he lunged toward her, grabbing her roughly.

"What must I do to teach you your place?" the prince demanded, shaking Belle so hard her teeth clattered.

"I didn't mean to-"

"Shut up woman!" the prince roared, inches from Belle's face. In truth he wanted to strike her, hard, as his father had done to him. Precious little was holding him back from doing so. He was dimly aware of Babette crying and the servants making various pleas for him to let her go. His eyes bore into hers and he saw real fear in her expression, which pleased him. As he glared into her face, he slowly became aware of how closely they were standing to each other. His grip and expression softened, his attention caught by her lips. Suddenly his anger flared again, stronger now, furious at her impertinence, her disobedience, her audacity. He blamed his attraction toward her on redirected passion, having not finished with his maid, and pushed Belle away from him, so hard she nearly fell backward.

"Promise or no promise, I can't stay here another minute," Belle exclaimed, as she regained her balance. Her skirts flared around her as she turned and ran as quickly as she could out of the room.

"Wait! Wait a minute!" Cogsworth yelled after her.

"Where are you going?" Lumiere called, but Belle did not slow her pace, barreling out of the castle and into the surrounding forest. The prince, still breathing heavily, stood in the middle of his room, his body shaking. All at once the tempest of his fury receded and regret came rushing over him. He buried his face in his hands, realizing his only chance to save himself from exile may have well just rode away from the castle for good.


	10. The Forest

Gaston did not mind hunting in the winter. In fact, in many ways he preferred it. True, there weren't as many animals roaming the forests as in spring and summer. But there were also not as many hunters. The still and quiet made it easier to hear potential prey, and the snow on the ground made it easier to track them. Since the humiliation he had suffered at the hands of Belle and the prince, there was little else that brought him as much satisfaction as the hunt. With his musket and his keen senses he felt absolutely powerful, the master of the forest.

As Gaston crouched in the bushes, watching for any sign of movement in the stillness of the snow, Gaston noticed a patch of blue between the branches a few dozen yards away. It couldn't be. Gaston squinted at the figure, and slowly inched forward in the snow to see it better. The figure stopped and looked around, appearing lost. Gaston saw the face, and broke out into a self-satisfied grin. That Belle should wander, alone and on foot, right across his path, like red riding hood walking into the wolf's lair. At last, his luck returned.

Before Belle even realized what had happened, Gaston swiftly made his way through the snow and lept toward her, grabbing her from behind. Belle screamed, but was quickly silenced by Gaston, who pressed his hand against her mouth.

"Hello Belle," Gaston murmured into her ear. Belle responded by biting his hand. When he pulled it away in surprise she began screaming again and attempted to run away. Surprisingly fast for a man of his size he easily recaptured her, and punched her hard across the face. Reeling, Belle staggered backward, tripping and falling into the snow. Gaston laughed and stood over her.

"This is how I've always wanted to see you," Gaston said, "Flat on your back below me."

Belle scrambled to pull herself up, but the ice and snow made it a difficult task, and as soon as she gained any traction Gaston promptly shoved her back down.

"You have always been far too proud," Gaston told her, "You need to get your head out of those books and learn what it is women are good for."

Belle began screaming again, but Gaston quickly silenced her by throwing himself on top of her, grabbing her by the hair, and pushing his mouth to hers. She beat him with her fists, kicked him, and attempted to bite him again, but his strength far outweighed her own. As she struggled she noticed with horror Gaston undoing his belt. Gaston kept her pinned down with one arm, and began stroking himself quickly with the other.

"No!" Belle yelled, realizing what he meant to do with her, "I won't!"

Belle kicked him hard in the groin and managed to crawl away, but Gaston grabbed her yet again. In pain and now furious, he struck her across the face again and pinned her down hard. He tore her bodice, exposing her naked flesh to the snow, so cold it burned her. Their breath fogged the air around them, the forest silent in a canopy of tree branches and snow, save for Belle's screams.

"Stop fighting!" Gaston yelled, pulling up her skirts, "The more you fight the worse it will be."

"Never!" Belle shouted. Gaston responded by laughing and forcing her legs open.

"I will have you," Gaston told her, "I always get what I want, one way or another."

Belle continued to struggle, tears now pouring down her cheeks, fear suffocating her with the weight of Gaston's body. She closed her eyes, willing herself to be anywhere else, determined to take her mind as far from her body as she could. She thought of the art she had seen in the prince's castle, of traveling with her parents, of her favorite books. She took a breath, knowing it would happen soon.

All at once she heard Gaston swear and felt him move violently sideways. She opened her eyes to see the prince standing over them, looking wild with rage. She looked quickly over at Gaston as she scrambled to stand. From the way Gaston had fallen and how he was clutching his ribs, she guessed the prince had kicked him hard in the side.

Gaston suddenly reached out and grabbed Belle by the ankle. He managed to pull her off balance and she fell back into the snow. Gaston pulled himself and Belle up to stand, and as the prince lunged toward them Gaston unsheathed his hunting knife and held it to Belle's throat. As was no doubt Gaston's aim, the prince froze.

"Get back!" Gaston yelled, "Leave now or I slit your whore's throat."

The prince looked at Gaston with a horrified expression, then to Belle, then back at Gaston. It was clear his confidence had been knocked out of him, and all too obvious that he didn't know what to do.

"You-you would kill a woman just to make a point?" the prince asked incredulously.

"To take back my freedom! My honor!" Gaston yelled back, "All that you have taken from me. Leave! Now!"

Gaston tightened his grip on Belle and the prince watched as he dragged the knife slowly across Belle's throat, just hard enough to pierce her skin, tracing a thin line of blood across her neck.

"Stop!" the prince shouted, "I'll pay you!"

Gaston stopped, momentarily surprised. He eyed the prince suspiciously. The prince and Belle locked eyes, and then he brought his attention back to Gaston.

"With what?" Gaston spat.

"You can have the tavern back," the prince offered.

"The tavern was mine to begin with!" Gaston bellowed.

"And gold!" the prince added quickly, "Lots of gold."

Gaston's grip on Belle slackened as he considered the prince's offer. Belle noticed the shift in how tightly he was holding her, and took the opportunity to bite his hand again, hard enough to draw blood. He pulled his hand away in shock, dropping the knife. Belle elbowed him in the stomach and managed to flee. She meant to run away as quickly as possible, but before she could even find her footing the prince had lunged at Gaston. He punched him hard in the face. Gaston answered him by striking him in the stomach. As the prince doubled over, Gaston hit him in the back with his elbow, causing the prince to fall over. Gaston stood over him, victorious, raising his foot to kick him. The prince rolled away and grabbed the knife that had been dropped in the snow. He bounded to his feet and held it out, a warning.

"Stop!" the prince commanded, "Leave us."

Gaston raised an eyebrow, undefeated and calculating. The prince continued to hold out the knife, his muscles tensed, ready to fend off Gaston. Belle saw that the prince's hand was shaking so that the knife quivered slightly. Adam edged slowly to where Belle was standing. With one hand he undid his cloak and held it out to her, not looking at her, his gaze still set suspiciously at Gaston. She took it and wrapped it around her exposed and freezing skin. It was still warm and smelled like him, a mix of cologne, whiskey, and sweat. She pulled the cloak tight around herself, much more comforted by this gesture than she felt she ought to be. Gaston watched this exchange with visible disgust.

"All right. Give me my tavern," Gaston said, striding toward the prince with the swagger that always punctuated his steps, "And I will leave you to the girl."

The prince glared at Gaston, looking him over. Gaston held out his hand to shake on the deal. Were this but a few days ago the prince would have had him imprisoned. Now, however, he was thoroughly stripped of much of his power thanks to his father. He hesitated, then tucked the knife into his belt and shook Gaston's hand. Gaston shook it slowly, then in one swift movement pulled the prince toward him, retrieved the knife from the prince's belt, and attempted to stab him in the side. The prince dodged just in time, and the knife slashed his arm instead. The prince tackled Gaston, and the men struggled, the prince nimbly dodging Gaston's weapon while managing to get in a few solid punches. One punch managed to knock Gaston off-balance, and he lay in the snow. For once a look of fear trumped his usual expression of arrogance. Belle watched this with a significant feeling of satisfaction. The prince swiftly brought his foot down and smashed Gaston's arm with his boot, causing Gaston to lose his grip on the knife. Gaston's free arm grabbed the prince, and he fell. They rolled through the snow exchanging blows, each so consumed by rage and determined to beat the other that Belle feared that they would kill one another.

Belle watched, in a mix of horror, relief, and shock, as they repeatedly struck each other with such force that both men were now blinking and visibly struggling to maintain their tenuous hold on consciousness even as they continued to pummel each other. Belle looked around, panicked, torn between wanting to run away and feeling obligated to stop this somehow. Her breath was quick and she was sweating despite the cold, but she felt somehow detached from the scene in front of her, as though she were in a dream where she had a vague knowledge of dreaming. She caught her breath as she saw the prince's sleeve, red with blood, his wounded arm tugging her back into herself.

She grabbed a branch and wielded it over her shoulder like a club. Gaston had managed the upper hand in the fight, and was pummeling the prince's head repeatedly, so hard the sound of his fist cracking against the prince's skull echoed through the forest. Belle crept behind Gaston and, finding strength she did not know she possessed, brought the branch down hard upon the crown of his head. Gaston fell with a groan and the prince finished him off with a few punches until, at last, Gaston was unconscious and laid still as death in the snow.

The prince pulled himself shakily to his feet, victorious. Belle was still holding the branch, and they looked at one another, the wind now stirring and tousling Belle's hair and skirt. Neither of them spoke, and then the prince groaned slightly as he lost consciousness and fell to the ground in a heap.

Belle slowly laid down the branch and backed away. Her would-be captors had vanquished one another and she was free. Was this not the best possible outcome? Both these beasts lying helpless and harmless in the snow? She heard, if she was not mistaken, the sound of a horse neighing and pawing at the ground. It did not take her long to locate the steed, black and with a saddle made of the finest leather which quickly identified it as belonging to the prince. Belle could hardly contain her excitement as she checked the saddle and placed a foot in a stirrup, ready to hoist herself onto the horse. She could ride to the village where her aunt lived, send word to her father, and sort this whole mess out. It was a day and a half's ride, if that. Belle looked to the sky, using the position of the sun to judge the time of day and orient herself to where west was so she could set off in the correct direction. Just as she tensed her muscles to pull herself into the saddle she froze and slackened. She glanced over her shoulder at the prince and saw the snow, rose colored around him, tinted by his blood. Her expression fell, and she looked longingly at the saddle, knowing already what she had to do but for a moment unable to do it.

Resigned, she turned slowly and made her way back to the prince. He lay prostrate beneath her, bruised and bleeding. Belle reached down and tore a long strip of fabric off the bottom of her shift. She bandaged his arm, and while she did so she quickly assessed the damage. His handsome face was cut and bruised in numerous places, and she assumed that once he got out of the snow it would be swollen as well. Judging by the amount of blood coming from his nose she guessed it could be broken. Luckily, from what she could see, his injuries could be expected to heal. However, she could hardly leave him here, he needed to be returned to the castle. She bit her lip and considered his muscular form, wondering how in the world she was going to lift him onto the horse.

Adam awoke dizzy and with a pounding headache. He felt the smoothness of the sheets under him and blinked, his blurred vision clearing to reveal his bed curtains and the faces of worried servants. The prince slowly took in the fact that he was back in his bed in the west wing. As he brought his hand to his face and winced, he discerned what sounded like water being poured and turned his head toward the sound. Kneeling at his bedside was Belle, her hair down, her expression concerned as she busied herself with wringing a rag into a basin. He was surprised, but not displeased, to see her. She looked up, and her expression changed to one of relief when she saw him awake.

"Here now," she said, moving to remove the bandage from his arm. The prince pulled away defensively and she frowned, adding, "Just hold still!"

"That hurts!" he bellowed, sitting up and tugging his arm roughly away. Adam was a man short on patience even on days when he hadn't been pummeled by his father and muscular peasants. Belle frowned and threw the rag back into the basin. Finished with being dominated by brutish men, she leaned in to challenge him.

"If you hold still it wouldn't hurt as much!" she shouted as though she were admonishing a child. The prince straightened, surprised. He hadn't been shouted at since his mother was alive, and this threw him off balance.

"If you hadn't run away, this wouldn't have happened," he snapped, gathering himself for an argument.

"If you hadn't frightened me, I wouldn't have run away!" Belle retorted, her own patience thoroughly frayed.

"Frightened you?" Adam responded incredulously, "You barged into my quarters without so much as knocking! You need to learn respect!"

"And you need to learn how to control your temper!" Belle yelled. In her anger she had leaned in toward him, their faces now were perhaps six inches apart. The prince opened his mouth to reply but found himself, to his great surprise, silenced. The candlelight flowed over Belle's porcelain skin and she all but glowed like a river in moonlight. Loosened from its usual ponytail, her chestnut hair cascaded down her back, showing hints of auburn when the light caught it. The prince's defensive posture relaxed. She was lovely and he had no will to resist her.

"Now hold still," Belle commanded, taking his arm firmly. She paused and added more softly, "This might sting a little."

The prince hissed as the rag was pressed to his wound. Belle cleaned his arm gently, ignoring the power she felt in the muscles of his forearm as she held it, distracting herself from the heat of his flesh by focusing on his injury. As she examined his arm, she wondered how she would tell him that she would need to stitch up the gash.

"Mrs. Potts, can you fetch me a needle, thread, and more cloth please?" she said to the kindly woman, who had been at the prince's bedside from the moment she brought him in. Belle hesitated and added, "And whiskey?" Mrs. Potts looked as though she wanted to question Belle for a moment, but nodded and left the room.

"What?" The prince asked, alarmed, "What do you mean to do to me?"

"Don't worry," Belle told him, "I just need to stitch up this cut."

"No! I don't want that! Leave me alone!" the prince yelled, pulling his arm away again, exhaustion and pain causing him to behave with petulance. Belle was, for the first time, grateful that her father had so often hurt himself while tinkering with his various inventions. This, combined with knowledge gleaned from reading medical texts, had gifted Belle with respectable healing abilities. She was confident she could help the prince.

"It'll only take a minute," Belle assured him, "I know what I'm doing."

The prince hesitated, holding his arm away from her. He looked into her face and saw such kindness that before he realized it he had reluctantly given her his arm. Belle gently placed her hand on top of his own and squeezed it.

"It will be all right, your highness," she told him, her tone both authoritative and nurturing. He smiled weakly at her. She paused then added, as though it were an afterthought, "By the way... thank you, for saving my life."

He caught his breath, not prepared for such a statement. All at once, he felt regret for how he had treated her. He noticed a pressure in his chest of unbidden emotion and felt frustration at the maddening inadequacy of words. Belle preserved his dignity by busying herself with his wound, behaving as though nothing at all had been said.

"You're welcome," he choked out at last, suddenly shy. He looked down at his arm and cursed himself for responding so lamely.

Mrs. Potts came back into the room with the items Belle had requested. Belle thanked the servant and removed her hand from the prince's to take the needle and thread. The moment she lifted her hand from his was the instant he missed her touch. He blinked and looked back to her, his eyebrows knitted. She mistakenly took the panic in his expression for fear of the procedure and smiled at him reassuringly. Her smile only deepened his attraction to her and increased his consternation. Mrs. Potts offered him the whiskey and he took it, tilting the bottle back gratefully, more concerned with drowning his perplexing emotions than with dulling the physical pain.

Belle expertly tended to the prince's arm, certain when she was finished that it would heal beautifully. In silence she retrieved another rag and cleaned the rest of the prince's wounds. The prince lay in a haze of pain, whiskey and infatuation under Belle's care. In this state, he allowed himself to surrender to her. Though Belle's method of attending to the prince was decidedly different from Babette's techniques, he found he preferred Belle. He watched her as she pressed the rag to his face, his shoulders. She paused and blushed, looking down at a nasty scrape the prince had across his chest, just visible under the neckline of his shirt.

"May I?" she asked. The prince felt the corner of his mouth lift into a half smile, endeared by her modesty. He nodded. She shifted the linen of his shirt and placed the cloth to his skin. He continued to watch her with heavy lidded eyes, the smoothness of her movements, the subtle changes in her expression, the graceful arch of her neck and of her eyelashes. Belle's eyes diverted ever so fleetingly from the scrape she was cleaning to the rest of the prince's sculpted torso. She pulled the cloth away from him and cleared her throat.

"I think that should do it," she said, placing the rag back in the basin near the prince's bed. He took her hand and looked at her, his blue eyes blurry with exhaustion and alcohol, but his affection clear. Belle was surprised to find that she had no desire to pull away from him, that she could have stayed that way with this rude boorish man she hardly knew. She was used to men looking at her. What she was not used to was how a man's gaze could so quicken her heartbeat.

"Thank you," he told her. Their hands were still joined, their gazes locked. So they remained for an instant which lingered like a visitor that could not bear to leave. Suddenly, Belle felt overwhelmed by tiredness and confusion. She assumed the day's events were getting to her. Belle nodded to the prince and gingerly laid his arm across his torso.

"Rest, your highness," she advised him. He did not want to take his eyes off her, but to please her he let his heavy eyelids close. A feeling of comfort and relaxation overcame him, and he was asleep before Belle even reached the door.


	11. Détente

The next few days passed quietly, with something like the tentativeness of someone afraid to wake a baby. For the time being, there was a feeling of delicate peace in the castle. Belle didn't mind the quiet. It gave her a chance to at last regain her bearings and recover from all of the upheaval her life had recently acquired. Her lip and cheek were swollen from where Gaston had struck her and her face discolored from a large bruise, but beyond this she was intact, at least physically.

Belle considered her current situation. She reviewed her options, none of which were ideal. She could again try to return to her village, she doubted the prince would do much to stop her at this point, but she would be a fool to return alone with Gaston still nursing a grudge against her and obviously dangerous. She could still ride for her aunt's home a few villages away, but she hated the thought of dragging yet another loved one into the mess she had created. Fiercely independent, it was against her nature to go running for help. She preferred to solve her own problems. If she remained at the castle, it may be possible for her to gain influence over the prince. With his support, perhaps she could yet salvage the situation and have her father return none the wiser. She had no idea if she could ingratiate herself to the prince, nor did she know how they could rectify the conflict with Gaston, but he was afterall a prince and currently her best option.

She had to admit, as she sat at her desk in her large and well-appointed room, that staying at the castle was not altogether unpleasant. She had requested some paper so that she could write and had immediately been provided with a large leather bound journal, filled with hundreds of smooth blank pages. In addition, she had been supplied with blue and black ink and a collection of quills wrought from colorful and exotic feathers. Her meals consisted of the best food she had ever eaten, and her clothing was of the finest materials. The servants doted on her, which made her a little uncomfortable, but they were so warm and friendly that she found herself enjoying their company.

A knock at her door announced the arrival of one of the servants. Belle placed her quill in its inkwell and smoothed back a stray lock of hair.

"Come in," she called. The door swung open to reveal Lumiere, who stepped into her room hesitantly.

"Pardon the intrusion Mademoiselle," he said, bowing deeply, "The master has requested I escort you to the library."

"Ah," Belle said, a little surprised that the prince had requested to see her, "Well, I suppose we never did get to the library during my tour, did we?"

Lumiere laughed and offered a hand to Belle. She took it and stood from her seat, her fine complexion blossoming from the forest green of her dress like a winter rose. Lumiere suppressed an urge to flirt with her, sensing the master would not be pleased, though it would serve him right after that scene with Babette in the west wing. Still, Lumiere was not a vindictive sort, and instead lead her with deference into the corridor outside her room and toward the library.

It was the sheer enormity of the castle that impressed Belle the most as she was lead through it to meet the prince. She had not often left her room these past few days, uncertain of which parts were acceptable for her to explore and which were strictly off limits. After the fiasco in the west wing, she had thought it best not to push her luck. But as she passed under soaring vaulted ceilings and past rooms that were far more spacious than her entire cottage, she marveled at the fact that such grandness had been conceived and constructed for but one man.

They arrived at a set of double doors that towered over Belle's petite frame. Lumiere raised his hand to knock, and Belle assumed that they had arrived at the library. The prince's voice, muffled by the barrier of the doors, bade them to enter. When Lumiere pushed the doors open, Belle was treated to to the most spectacular sight she had ever laid eyes on.

Belle entered the library like a supplicant granted access to the innermost chambers of the Vatican. Pure wonder settle across Belle's expression as she edged shyly into the room. Like everything else in the castle, the space was huge, books lined walls that soared so magnificently high it was as though they were trying to bring all Earthly knowledge to the realm of Heaven. Shelf upon shelf sprawled all around her, and though she was a small figure in the cavernous room, she felt safe, embraced by her favorite thing in all the word—her books. She wondered how many volumes the prince's collection contained as she scanned the shelves, nearly overwhelmed by the sheer number of pages surrounding her. Ladders and walkways zigzagged across the walls and shelves, providing access to the thousands of books that were out of reach.

"I've never seen anything like this in all my life!" Belle exclaimed, all but twirling in circles around the room in her zeal to take it all in, "This is wonderful!"

Belle eagerly ran to the nearest shelf to read the titles it contained, running her hand over the indentations the typeface left on the leather binding. Virgil, Ovid, Pliny the Younger…she guessed she had stumbled upon the bookcase that housed works from ancient Rome. Spying a volume with Marcus Aurelius as the author, she plucked it from its shelf and hurriedly flipped through the pages.

"Whatever happens at all happens as it should; you will find this true if you watch narrowly," Belle read aloud. She pressed the open book to her chest and closed her eyes, savoring the words. What better feeling was there than when a book acted as an umbilical cord to the past, providing needed sustenance from the wisdom of past ages? When she opened her eyes, she became aware of the prince and Lumiere watching her with amused expressions. Regaining her composure, Belle cleared her throat and reshelved the book. She strode to the desk where the prince was sitting and curtseyed.

"Please sit," the prince said, gesturing to a chair that sat across the desk. He looked her over, his blue eyes sparkling, "Though I am sorry to interrupt the communion you have with Marcus Aurelius."

"This is magnificent, your highness," Belle responded. The prince looked around the room, smiling as though seeing it with new eyes.

"I am used to it I suppose," he said, taken with Belle's excitement, how her doe eyes widened like a child's. He was also pleased to see that Belle was wearing one of the dresses his servant, Madame Armoire, had provided for her. He took it as a sign that she did not entirely despise staying with him at the castle, which was encouraging. However, as he looked her over the bruises Belle had sustained did not escape him. He was surprised he had not noticed them when she had tended to him, but then, it had been dark and his mind had been hazy. And also perhaps, though he was reluctant to admit it, he was self-absorbed. Still, now that he noticed, it troubled him to see her hurt.

"You are injured," he said to her softly.

"Oh, it's nothing," Belle responded quickly, eager as always to sweep her own troubles under the rug, "I honestly hardly feel it."

"Have the servants been looking after you?" Adam pressed, still concerned.

"Yes, they have been wonderful. I have everything I need and much more, your highness. I am sure I will heal quickly," Belle reassured him. She absentmindedly smoothed her skirts and blushed, embarrassed at the attention her injuries were receiving from the prince. She supposed she should wear more powder to cover her bruises until they were healed. Adam continued to watch her in silence for a moment, seeming lost in his own thoughts.

"It would seem we have some matters to discuss," Adam said at last, folding his hands on his desk in front of him in a way that conveyed a subdued authority.

"So it would seem," Belle responded, knowing he was referring to the recent series of events and what steps they should take in response.

"Do you wish to return to your home?" the prince asked. Belle was not expecting the prince to ask her so directly about her own preferences, and so was caught off guard. She looked up at him, and found that his expression was gentle. She thought for a moment of returning home, stoking the fireplace, feeding the animals. She thought of her father, and how dearly she missed him. But then, she thought of Gaston, of how closely he had come to raping her, of how he had nearly killed the prince. No, she could not return home, not yet anyway. All at once, she felt tears come to her eyes. She was startled at the homesickness that suddenly rushed over her like the tide. It was a strange sort of homesickness, a sort of homesickness for a place, a feeling, that no longer existed. Home. Did she even have one anymore? Was there anywhere she belonged, intrinsically and effortlessly?

"I…" Belle began, but she was interrupted by an unbidden quiver in her voice. She cleared her throat, attempting to smooth out her voice as casually as she would smooth her skirts, but found it difficult. She took a deep breath and continued simply, "I think perhaps I cannot."

"I think the same," the prince agreed softly, retrieving a handkerchief from the pocket of his jacket and passing it over the desk to Belle. She took it and dabbed her eyes. Belle did not at all enjoy how often she had lost her composure in front of the prince, how she had assumed a sort of damsel-in-distress position in regard to him. She quickly composed herself, and straightened in her chair.

"I worry for my father," Belle told the prince.

"He is still away?" Adam asked.

"He is still at the fair with a recent invention of his," Belle explained. Adam nodded thoughtfully. He considered this, then rose from his seat to look out of a large window that afforded a view of the gardens.

"Were I better at diplomacy we would not have our current quandry," Adam commented, staring out of his window moodily, suddenly vulnerable.

"You must not blame yourself for Gaston's considerable personality defects," Belle responded, and Adam looked over his shoulder at her to give her a small appreciative smile.

"Still," Adam continued, returning to the desk, "I am hopeful that a charitable project will help soothe tensions and diffuse the situation."

"That would be ideal," Belle conceded, though knowing Gaston's stubbornness she doubted that such an overture would be effective in neutralizing that particular threat. However, given what the prince had been through and his moodiness, she though it best not to quell his optimism.

"I am also hopeful that you will help me," Adam added, a little shyly. Surprised at how disarming the prince could be, Belle felt her defenses lowering.

"I am afraid I have very little experience in planning public projects," Belle demurred.

"Then your experience in such endeavors matches my own," the prince replied, causing Belle to smile.

"I am happy to help you in anyway I can," Belle agreed.

"We're partners then?" Adam asked, tilting his head to the side, raising a thick eyebrow, and smiling at her in a way that Belle could only describe as dashing.

"Yes," Belle answered, laughing, "If your eminence decrees it as such."

"And do you wish to continue to reside at the castle until this matter with your town is straightened out?" Adam asked. Again unsettled at his concern, Belle reflected on her thoughts regarding her current living situation.

"It does seem best, for the time being, if your highness approves of course." Belle said.

"I'll have to check with Cogsworth to see if we have the space," the prince said. Belle looked up at him, surprised, having not considered the possibility that the prince would not allow her to stay. But then she saw it, the mischievous sparkle in his eyes that she had recognized in the portrait of him as a boy, and knew that he was teasing.

"I'd like to write my father, if I may," Belle said, thinking that since the prince was apparently sober and in a receptive mood that this would be the best time to make such a request, "He needs to be apprised of everything that has happened."

"Of course," the prince responded, "Give the letter to Cogsworth when you are finished and inform him that I want it sent with the best messenger on our fastest horse."

"Thank you, your highness," Belle said warmly. Prince Adam smiled at her, and though it lasted only an instant, it lit up his already handsome face, warming his aristocratic features like a candle in the golden branches of a chandelier. Belle felt a flutter ripple through her, as though a songbird were beating its wings against her ribcage. Unaccustomed to such a feeling, Belle suddenly felt the need to excuse herself from the prince's company.

"Forgive me your highness," Belle said, "I find myself quite tired."

"Of course," the prince said, rising from his own seat to offer his hand to Belle. Charmed by the gentlemanly gesture, Belle took it and stood from her chair. As soon as their hands met, Belle felt an electricity pass between them, as though he were lightening and she a key on a kite. Instinctively she pulled her hand away, and the prince, seeming suddenly uncomfortable, cleared his throat.

"If you'll excuse me," Belle told him, "I think I'll go rest."

"Yes," the prince agreed, "Rest. Think about what would best serve your town, and we'll meet again in a few days."

Belle curtsied and left. The prince watched her go, how he loved to watch her. How gracefully she stepped, as though she were a ballerina, the curve of her waist, the flare of her skirts, the chestnut curls that fell down her back. She looked over her shoulder at him as she passed through the doorway, and gave him a small shy smile. He smiled back at her, spellbound. He thought of how aptly she was named as the sound of her footsteps receded, as the scent of her rose perfume faded, as the warmth her hand had left on his cooled. He took a sip from a glass on his desk that contained, for once, water rather than whiskey or wine. Belle. Beauty. He smiled, in spite of himself, into his glass as though he were guarding a delightful secret.


	12. The Library

They did indeed meet in the following days, but even after discussing a number of ideas at length, they were no closer to deciding on a fitting project or even a strategy for dealing with the town. Adam was impressed by Belle's work ethic and admired how completely she threw herself into the project. She was in the library at all hours, pouring over numerous volumes and manuscripts, researching successful examples of charity, examining the political situation and the town's economic needs, considering the long-term impact and possible adverse side effects of a variety of possible works. Belle took her role in the undertaking very seriously, and did everything she could to educate herself as thoroughly as possible about the matter so that they could make the most informed decision. She so rigorously held herself to impeccable standards that it made the prince, for the first time in his life, want to take the matter seriously.

It was perhaps several weeks after Belle had come to live at the castle when, one morning, the prince awoke at a decent hour, for him, and dressed. Finding he desired some fresh air, he wrapped a cloak around himself and and took his morning tea out onto the balcony. As he stood in the crisp early winter air, he heard the sounds of voices, laughter. He walked to the end of his balcony and peered over the edge. To his delight he saw Belle playing with a group of servant children in the gardens. The children clearly adored her. They called out to her with their arms outstretched, and she gathered them up and spun them in circles. One child, dizzy, fell sideways into the snow. Belle joined her, flopping into the snow and moving her arms and legs to create a snow angel. The children imitated her, and as Belle praised their beautiful angels the children laughed in delight.

Adam had not realized he had been smiling while surveying the scene, nor had he been aware of Lumiere's arrival until the maitre d spoke.

"Forgive the intrusion master," Lumiere said, startling the prince. In his surprise Adam jostled the teacup he had been holding, causing hot tea to spill over the lip and onto his hand. As Adam swore and plunged his burning hand into the snow that had accumulated on the bannister of his balcony, Lumiere cleared his throat to cover the sound of a guffaw he failed to suppress.

"Yes Lumiere?" the prince bade the servant testily.

"Will the mademoiselle be joining you for dinner?" he asked, approaching his master.

"Of course,"Adam responded, not taking his eyes off of Belle running through the gardens. Lumiere glanced over the edge of the balcony, and then at the prince. A knowing smile spread over the maitre d's face as he realized the cause of the prince's distraction.

"She is an exceptional beauty, non?," Lumiere said, glancing back toward the gardens appreciatively.

"Do you think so?" the prince asked, his attempt at nonchalance undermined by how he nervously toyed with the cuffs of his shirt.

"Do you not?" Lumiere asked, enjoying the opportunity to see the master squirm, for once. Lumiere was not one to hold a grudge, but he would be lying if he said he did not get at least a little pleasure out of the master's discomfort since the scene with Babette.

"I've never really though about it," Adam responded, turning away from the balcony and walking back into the west wing so that he would not need to look Lumiere in the eye.

"Of course," Lumiere agreed, able to lie far more convincingly than the young royal, "There are so many other qualities to appreciate about her."

"There are," Adam said earnestly, "She's so clever. To see such intelligence and drive in a woman, a peasant woman no less, is so unexpected."

"It would probably be best if you did not tell her that," Lumiere advised. Adam furrowed his brow in confusion and Lumiere wondered at the young man's worldly ignorance.

"But truly, she has risen to the occasion so admirably," the prince effused. He thought for a moment and then his face lit up, "I want to do something for her! But what?"

"This is no ordinary girl," Lumiere told the prince, considering the young woman, "It has to be something special, something that speaks to her intellect."

"Then that rules out the usual presents I give to women," Adam responded with a frown, "Flowers, chocolates, promises I don't intend to keep…"

"Wait a minute!" Lumiere exclaimed, thinking of the young woman's adeptness in her role as the prince's counsel, "I know what you can do for her!"

* * *

Adam entered the castle library a little timidly. Belle used the room so much more than the prince and had such a personal relationship with literature that it seemed to belong more to her than to him even though it was in his home. Whenever Belle was not in her room, the library was the first place the prince and the servants looked for her and, far more often than not, it was where they found her.

It did not take long for the prince to spy the beauty on a walkway far above him, leaning against a ladder and thumbing through a volume thoughtfully.

"Belle?" the prince called up to her. She looked up from her book with the slightly disoriented look she always wore whenever anyone interrupted one of her reveries and peered over the rail of the walkway. When her gaze settled upon the prince, she smiled.

"Yes your highness?" she asked.

"It would seem I should be calling you that," the prince joked, craning his head back to look up at her.

"I'll come down," Belle said, laughing, and she deftly climbed down the system of walkways and ladders that lined the walls of the library to stand in front of the prince.

"I was hoping I could speak with you," Adam told her, "That is, if you have a moment."

"Of course," Belle said, smoothing a stray hair back from her brow.

"Well," the prince began, clearing his throat, "I may have an idea."

Belle waited for him to continue, her expression open and interested. It was not like the prince to doubt himself in any capacity, but she had a way of making him nervous. He hesitated, worried for a moment that she would hate his idea. However, he quickly reminded himself who he was, and fils de France, a prince for goodness sake, and pushed himself to continue speaking.

"I thought perhaps we could build a library for your town," the prince said. Belle's expression instantly transform into a brilliantly beatific one, and the prince was surprised at how much it pleased him to see her enthusiasm. He was enjoying this tremendously, making her happy, seeing her smile.

"Truly?" she exclaimed, "Yes! That's a wonderful idea! Books are so expensive and our poor bookseller often simply lends out his volumes or gives them away because no on can afford to buy them. We could have tutors there that can help teach people how to read, a lot of the women in the village can't you know, and we can have stories for the children! It's a project that will benefit generations of townspeople!"

"Well, obviously, I would need someone to oversee the running of the place," the prince continued, "I was hoping that after the construction is complete and we've chosen which volumes the library will house that I could trust you with that responsibility."

"Me?" Belle responded, seeming a little dazed.

"If you want to," the prince said hurriedly, "I'd pay you, of course. And I want you to know that I intend to allow you the freedom to run the facility as you see fit."

"You would allow such freedom even when you know my proclivity for treasonous material?" Belle asked, leaning in toward him, nearly daring him to forbid her from supplying certain authors. Far from taking offense with Belle's boldness, the prince looked down at her pretty upturned face and was overcome with a strong desire to plant a kiss on on her full lips.

"I trust that you will not incite the citizenry to riot against me," the prince murmured with a half smile, feeling that he needed to busy his mouth with speaking to keep his lips from seeking hers. Belle's expression softened, honored by the gesture, touched by the prince's trust in her.

"I would love nothing more than to run a library," Belle told him, "This is like a dream come true! Thank you so much. I can't tell you how excited I am!"

Belle, in her excitement, reached over and took the prince's hands in hers. There was such a sweetness in the gesture, such open gratitude and affection. The prince was not accustomed to receiving such sentiment. His interactions with anyone were buried under the weight of hundreds of years of complex tradition, so that he was only used to the barely suppressed disdain from his royal family and obsequious deference from everyone else. But this was something else. There was a feeling of genuine warmth between them, a connection rooted in mutual caring. And besides this, she was looking very, very pretty. She was all innocence and excitement, and she squeezed his hands in her enthusiasm before realizing that perhaps she had crossed a boundary.

"Forgive me," Belle said, pulling her hands away, "I seem to have forgotten myself."

Adam reclaimed her hands with his and looked into her face, wordlessly striking down the social hierarchy that stretched between them. A lock of hair, ever rebellious, had loosened once more from her ponytail and rested on her brow. Tenderly, Adam reached up and tucked the stray strand behind her ear. His heart pounding, he waited for Belle to pull away. She didn't. She watched him, her cheeks a little flushed, her hazel eyes focused on his own blue ones. He hadn't realized he had been leaning in toward her until he found her face was perhaps six inches from his own. He hesitated, smiling softly at her, not sure of what was happening, moving uncertainly as though he were in a dream.

"Master! There you are! I've been looking everywhere!" a British accent called loudly, intruding clumsily into the prince and Belle's delicate communion like a misbehaved child playing with fine china. Belle blinked slowly as though she had been under a spell and pulled away.

"This had better be important," the prince snapped at his servant, glaring with considerable irritation at the man.

"Forgive me," Cogsworth said, looking from Belle to the prince with a perplexed expression, "But we must review the household budget, I've some concern that our outlays are—"

"I'll take my leave," Belle demurred, curtsying in the prince's direction.

"Wait," Adam said, ignoring his servant, "We still need to discuss—"

"We can talk," and here Belle emphasized the word talk, "Later. You have other matters to attend to."

With this, Belle hurried out of the library, the sound of her heels echoing down the marble corridor until the clicks faded and finally disappeared. Adam sighed deeply and turned toward Cogsworth, a man with the widely established reputation as the castle's biggest destroyer of romantic moments. Cogsworth, at last sensing his intrusion, cleared his throat and checked his pocket watch awkwardly. Adam rolled his eyes in irritation and reluctantly resigned himself to Cogsworth's company in lieu of his lovely houseguest's as the servant prattled on about debts and overspending.


	13. Something There

Something There

Belle hurried out of the library, not breaking her stride until she was at last back in her room. In one swift motion she closed the door behind her and then all but collapsed against it. She put a hand to her cheek and shook her head. Well. This certainly was new and a bit alarming. Clearly the stress of her current situation was getting to her. Who'd have ever thought she would nearly allow the tyrant who had blackmailed her into indentured servitude to kiss her? No. It was more than "allow." She had wanted him to kiss her.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. Even as the shame and anger swelled within her she could not deny the rush of desire that still quickened her pulse. She had never quite felt this way. Belle had been curious about sex before, but never enough to risk a pregnancy in having it. Virtue was for the philosophers to debate, Belle was a practical woman who abstained because she could ill afford a child. And it wasn't as if her town were overflowing with dashing young bachelors that she was dying to fall into bed with. She refused to allow such intimacy with someone who did not respect her and, sadly, there were not many men to be found who treated women with respect. This prince included, Belle reminded herself, her features hardening.

There had been one boy, the son of a Jewish merchant. The young man sometimes traveled with his father and would come through town perhaps three times a year. He was a kind and quiet fellow, soft-spoken and polite with exquisite French. He was handsome in a studious sort of way, glasses circumscribing his dark eyes, a book nearly always balanced in his slender fingers. They often exchanged books and debated ideas when he came through, and Belle was as excited to have someone to talk to as he was thrilled to have such lovely company.

One summer, when Belle was fourteen, the young man came through town with his father. While on a walk to collect apples they began to discuss Candide. Just as Belle was making a point about how the story revealed the absurdity of undiluted optimism, he pressed his lips gently to hers, causing her to lose her thought. Belle found kissing him quite pleasant and from that day on they were apt to engage in it whenever he came through town. She enjoyed the sensation, the warmth, the closeness but her good sense kept her vigilant about stopping their rendezvous before things got out of control. Her encounters added a little color to her days, fun in a life that had become increasingly devoid of it. Indeed, experimenting with this Jewish man she knew she could never marry also carried with it a certain thrill, so she had to begrudgingly admit that she understood the prince's lecherous behavior with his maid to some small extant. She then realized that perhaps subversion of social expectations was at least part of her attraction to the prince.

Suddenly the image of the prince's face, so close to hers, flashed through Belle's mind and her cheeks flushed. Gone were the thoughts of the merchant's son, of the prince's many flaws, of her need to keep her wits about her. The mere thought of the prince passed through her like a current, her skin burning, her heart blazing in her chest as though she had consumed fire. For a second a half-formed thought, not so much a thought as a craving, overtook her and she considered rejoining him in the library. Then she took a breath and reclaimed herself, straightening her posture and regaining her bearing. She made her way to the window, her skirts rustling behind her like blossoms on a breezy day, and her gaze settled on the snow that lay on the grounds like fine white linen. Very well, she allowed, she found herself attracted to the prince. These feelings were regrettable for a number of reasons, not least of which was the fact that she had thought herself above fawning over powerful men. Had she not always scoffed at the Bimbettes? So what if she wanted him? Did it mean she had to lose all sense?

Of course not, Belle reasoned. No, she needed to remember the type of person this man was. A man that blackmailed her, threatened her and her father, a spoiled and careless man who could turn on her at any moment. This prince was the type that treated the common folk like servants, his servants like objects, and women in general as mere vessels for his lust. He was also a man who drank, gambled, and fucked his way through his life of considerable wealth and influence, rather than using his privilege to better the lives of the subjects whose taxes supported his extravagant lifestyle. She may have desired him, but so too did she disdain him.

For though he may have been princely in name, in looks, and in bearing his behavior revealed him to be a beast. Belle left the window and sat herself at her desk. She could not afford to behave frivolously, to allow her labido to dictate her response to the prince. No, she alone was responsible for her papa and her household, and her papa was aging and there was no money. She inhaled deeply, accepting her reality. Let the Bimbettes faint over biceps, Belle thought, I need a good head on my shoulders. She lifted a quill from her inkwell and pressed it hesitantly to the sweet open face of the blank page before her. As she wrote, she tried to ignore the shame she felt. She had been selfish for long enough, it was time to reach out to her father.

* * *

Laughter, song, and the general boisterousness of drunk men and loose women late at night was thick in the air, but one corner of the provincial tavern was significantly less merry. Sulking in the embrace of an enormous armchair, Gaston glowered into the fireplace. The dying flames lapped at the air as though searching for more kindling to consume. Having his tavern returned to him did surprisingly little to dissipate the rage Gaston felt toward Belle and the prince. Chiseled features sharpened into a scowl, he ruminated over all the ways in which he had been wronged. This wasn't at all how things were supposed to go. He was Gaston! No one says no to Gaston! So how was it that he found himself in such disgrace? Dismissed, rejected, publicly humiliated…it was almost more than he could bear.

Lefou hurried to Gaston's side, the short man weighed down by a tray bearing enormous steins of ale.

"More beer?" Lefou offered. Gaston grabbed both steins with one muscular hand and threw it into the fire. The alcohol caused the dying flames to erupt, startling the patrons of the tavern but doing nothing to dispel Gaston's gloom.

"What for?" Gaston sighed petulantly, turning his chair away from his lackey and crossing his arms, "Nothing helps."

"Gaston," Lefou said, speaking to his mentor with unusual confidence, "You have to pull yourself together. It disturbs me to see you so melancholy. There's no one in town half as admired as you, you're everyone's hero, there's no woman who can resist you! Think of all the hardship you spared yourself by escaping marriage to that lunatic's daughter!"

Gaston's eyes flashed at the mention of Belle and he pulled his arm back reflexively as though he wanted to strike Lefou. Sensing his mistake Lefou braced himself and held up the drink tray as a defense against the blow, but then Gaston's expression fell and his arm slackened.

"To be…rejected by-by her…when I-I-I mean to say, I'm me…" Gaston muttered, choking on the words, "She should be honored."

"Of course she should!" Lefou responded enthusiastically, "That's how you know she's even crazier than the old man. She won't be the most beautiful girl in town forever, and it isn't as though she has a dowry or a good family to recommend her."

"And yet she found him," Gaston hissed, the way in which he spat out the word 'him' making it plain he was speaking of the Prince.

"He found her," Lefou countered, "And when he's finished with her he'll dump her right back on her father's doorstep like a sack of unwanted kittens. Maybe he'll leave her with a bastard to tend to along with her raving papa and the hogs."

Gaston smiled slightly at the thought of Belle mired in misery and poverty, both her spirit and beauty diminished. That she would get at least some of the punishment due her for rejecting him gave him some small comfort, but it did nothing to soothe the sting of humiliation, and it did nothing to dampen the impotent rage he felt toward the prince.

"And what of him?" he grumbled.

"His majesty?" Lefou asked. Gaston gave a curt nod and Lefou lifted two steins from a passing bar maid's tray and handed one to Gaston. The muscular man took it gruffly, and Lefou was pleased to see that Gaston held it rather than hurling it into the flames, a good indication that he was feeling at least a little better.

"Does he just walk away?" Gaston fumed, finishing off his ale in one prolonged draught before slamming it down on the table, "Does he get everything he wants without consequence?"

"Doesn't his type always?" Lefou asked.

"Must they always?" Gaston replied. Lefou took a sip of his own ale and looked uncomfortable. The bar maid hovered near them, now keenly interested in the turn of the conversation. The men at the table nearest to the fireplace glanced over, their squabble now suspended. The tension crouched low between them all, like a cat tightening its haunches to pounce.

"I suppose they don't always," Lefou said quietly into his mug, "He did give the tavern back to you."

At this Gaston slammed his fist down onto the table, causing both the mugs and Lefou to jump. The tavern was quiet now, women ceased their flirting, men set down their drinks, the barmaids stopped pouring the ale and even the gamblers halted their wagers. Gaston pulled himself out of the comfort of the armchair and up to his full height. He was commanding, there was no denying it, the line of his form bold, muscles thick, features defined. His body was raw power and clothed in symmetry and his demeanor that of a brute barely restrained by the conventions of polite society. He was, with his black hair, flashing eyes, and confident stance, eminently dominant. A natural born leader. He demanded attention and people gave it to him willingly, happily.

"He did not give anything to me," Gaston proclaimed, his sonorous voice bursting into a bellow, "I took back what was mine!"

In response, the crowd in the tavern cheered heartily, lifting their mugs to Gaston and pounding their fists on the table. Two barmaids came and flanked him on each side, running their hands over his biceps and murmuring about his courageousness. Lefou looked over at Gaston with a triumphant expression, proud to see that he succeeded in lifting the spirits of his hero. As Gaston basked in the admiration that he felt was rightfully due him, something happened that he had never experienced before. It happened suddenly and was so unexpected it nearly knocked the wind out of him. Gaston had an idea.

"Man was born free," Gaston continued, not sure of where he had heard the phrase before but exceedingly proud of himself for thinking of it now, "But we are everywhere in chains. Because of men like the prince!"

This garnered an even more emphatic round of cheering, stomping, and shouts of "here, here!" Gaston paused and looked around the room, fulling absorbing how all eyes were on him, that they were transfixed. It suddenly occurred to him that perhaps there was something to that drivel that Belle was always reading, something in the frustrations of his fellow townspeople that he could use to his advantage. A sneer twisted Gaston's full mouth as he realized his idea could work. There could yet be a way to make the prince pay for what he had done, to get revenge on both Belle and the prince. After all, Gaston reasoned, was he not a natural born leader of the people? And weren't the people tired of the heavy yoke of the nobility? They would follow him, he could feel it, once he built up their courage and fanned their rage enough, to the gilded gates of the prince's shining castle.


End file.
